The Kharza Chronicles
by johmatmarkun
Summary: Follow the story of a Khajiit named Kharza and his adventures in the land of Skyrim.  First fanfic, retelling of the original story with plenty of original characters.
1. Sovngarde Beckons

_Thus begins my venture into creative writing. Skyrim FTW._

_All credit to Bethesda for everything Elder Scrolls. Cheers, guys.  
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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Sovngarde <strong>**Beckons**

The darkness began to lift.

Kharza's silvery eyes fluttered open. His weary head lolled from side to side. His vision was blurred.

He was on a cart.

The scars on Kharza's cheek itched, as they always did in the morning. He moved to scratch his face, only to find his hands bound. Sunlight pierced the veil of surrounding mist, greeting Kharza's silvery-white eyes harshly, awakening a splitting pain in his head. He grimaced; the pain ushered a soft moan from his lips.

"Hey, you," he heard. A man's voice. "You're finally awake."

Kharza looked upon the man addressing him. A Nord, strong of build and blond of hair, clad in light armor, shrouded in blue cloth. Kharza looked to his right-the cart was full of many such Nords.

"Didn't know if you'd ever come to your senses," the blond man said through a hint of a smile. "Took quite a nasty bump on the head back there, Khajiit. Can you remember anything of what happened?"

Kharza closed his eyes. Violent images of red armor and blue, of shouting, cursing, of the cries of horses and the sounds of steel being drawn.

"Imperial soldiers," Kharza replied, trying hard to recover memory.

His mind's eye recalled a horse rearing up in front of him and knocking him to the ground. After that, only darkness.

"Aye, the Imperials," the blond man said. "A whole rotten heap of them ambushed us outside Darkwater Crossing. They took the lot of us prisoner, along with you and that thief over there."

Kharza's eyes flitted to the right. He saw a scrawny, dark-haired fellow sitting between two more soldiers in blue.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," he said indignantly. "Everything was fine until you showed up. The Imperials were nice and lazy. If it weren't for this mess you caused, I would've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now."

"No use in complaining about it, thief," said the blond man. "Seems we're all in this together now."

"Shut up back there!" barked the driver. Kharza decided he did not care for the driver.

"And what about this one?" asked the thief, gesturing with a jerk of his chin to the man sitting to Kharza's right.

"I'd mind my manners if I were you, horse thief," said the blond man. "You're speaking of Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim."

Kharza eyed the man. He was dressed in thick furs and muzzled tightly with heavy cloth. Kharza knew of the man. Word had spread throughout the Empire of this Ulfric Stormcloak and his campaign to rid Skyrim of the Empire.

"I think, then, that I know what awaits us," Kharza sighed.

"Aye," said the blond man. "It seems Sovngarde beckons today."

The jostling of the cart was doing Kharza's head no favors. Nor was the incessant whining of the horse thief.

"What's your story, Khajiit?" asked the blond man.

Kharza sighed.

"My name is Kharza. I came to this land hoping to find a place as a trader among my people's caravans. It seems my timing was poor." It was only half the story, but Kharza didn't feel the need to divulge anything more. Further details weren't necessary now.

The blond man nodded. "I am Ralof. It's good to meet you, Kharza. Pity it couldn't be under better circumstances."

There wasn't much talking for a while after that. How long, Kharza knew not. Then the road began to even out. Kharza saw that they were approaching a town.

"This is Helgen," the blond man said. "I used to visit here often, years ago. Pretties girls in the hold. The innkeeper used to mix juniper berries in with his mead-wonder if he's still doing that. I suppose those days are over for me, now."

Kharza's heart when out to Ralof; it seemed better days were behind them all. The horse thief was praying quietly. The man was shaking in his seat.

Kharza observed the town as the cart passed through the gate. Dewy flower petals shimmered in the early morning sun. The birds were singing in the trees. Though he hid it well, Kharza was scared-but it comforted him to see such beauty in his final hour.

A crowd had gathered in the town square. The townsfolk remained oddly quiet, save the occasional jeer and some conversing in hushed voices. Kharza thought it strange, for in Cyrodiil there would have been an angry throng pelting the captives with rotten vegetables.

I am glad there are no vegetables, Kharza thought. He almost smiled.

Then he saw them, standing on the far end of the square. Golden skin, golden armor, and haughty looks of superiority plastered across their faces.

Thalmor.

Kharza's ears flattened involuntarily. His eyes narrowed. A growl welled up in his throat.

Standing near the elves was a man wearing armor that differed from the other Imperials'. Short of stature with short, graying hair and a weathered face.

Ralof spoke. "General Tullius, the military governor. How fitting he should be here to preside over this affair. Looks like the Thalmor are here with him, too. Makes sense they'd have something to do with this. Damn their eyes..."

The cart slowed to a crawl and finally to a stop.

"Out of the cart, prisoners. Move your sorry arses!" shouted a woman wearing an officer's heavy armor.

_This one is in desperate need of a bedfellow, I think, _Kharza said to himself as he stepped down from the cart. This time, he did smile.

The officer woman glared at Kharza. "Is something funny, flea-bait? Do I fucking amuse you?"

"Ah, well," Kharza said, "I was just thinking-you seem quite on edge, as though you have not been bedded in many moons. Is it so?"

Fits of raucous laughter burst out amongst the ranks of the Stormcloaks. Kharza took a moment to revel in it, before the woman stepped forward and delivered a knee to his crotch. The strike robbed Kharza of breath, and he fell to his knees doubled over in pain. His headache was blinding now, but in his mind it was worth it. Several of the Stormcloaks around Kharza were beaten to the ground by the pommels of Imperial swords.

With the officer woman distracted, the horse thief decided to make a run for the gate. Some of the onlookers started to shout. The thief didn't get far before a volley of arrows found a home in his back.

"Anyone else feel like running?" the officer woman snarled.

Kharza steeled himself, and uncoiled to his feet. He saw that a man holding parchment and quill had made his way to the officer woman's side.

"Attention, prisoners," he called. "When your name is called, step forward and make your way to the block."

Names were called. The list-man made marks on his parchment. One by one, the prisoners headed toward the center of the square. Then the list-man's eyes fell on Kharza.

"You there, step forward. What's your name, prisoner?"

"Does it matter?" Kharza scoffed. He felt a hand from behind grab him by the scruff of his neck.

"Mind your tongue, worm," spat the captain. The hand on Kharza's neck shoved him forward.

"Captain," said the list-man, "what should we do? I don't see any Khajiiti names on the list."

"List be damned," replied the captain. "I'd have his head on a spike."

"By your orders, captain," sighed the list-man. He made a note on his list, then looked to Kharza. "I'm sorry. We'll see to it that your remains are returned to Elsweyr."

_Probably by dumping my headless corpse off the side of a cart, _Kharza thought.

Kharza made his way to the center of the square, joining the rest of the captives. General Tullius walked across the square, stopping in front of Ulfric Stormcloak. The General had a hard look in his eye when he spoke.

"Ulfric Stormcloak. I've no doubt that many here in Helgen hold you in high regard, but you are no hero of the people. A hero doesn't use a great power like the Voice to murder his High King and usurp his throne. A hero does not commit high treason against the emperor he swore to serve. Today the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!"

Some members of the crowd cheered. Others hung their heads.

Kharza took in all that was before him. The square, the tower, the crowd anticipating blood, the headsman in his dark hood wielding a giant axe, the worn chopping block and the basket in front of it. Kharza had seen all these things before, but never from this side.

A woman in robes stepped onto the scene from behind the executioner. The obligatory priestess of Arkay. She raised her hands and began to speak; she was giving everyone his last rites. A man's voice cut her off in the middle.

"For the love of Talos, woman, shut your mouth and let's get this over with!"

One of the men stepped forward boldly, walking to the block with his head held high, eyes full of defiance and pride. The priestess's hands fell to her sides.

"Let's go, then!" shouted the man. "I haven't got all morning!"

The surly captain grasped the man's shoulders and buckled his knees with her boot, which she then planted firmly in the man's back and shoved him forward onto the block. The man laughed.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial," the man said. "Can you say the same?"

The captain stepped back. The executioner lifted his axe above his head.

A mighty downward swing. The sound of steel clashing against stone. The Stormcloak's head fell to the ground. Blood sprayed forth from his neck like rain in a gale. Some of the spectators cheered and cried for more blood. Others turned away or closed their eyes. Members of the crowd shouted things like "Justice!" and "Death to the Stormcloaks!"

"As fearless in death as he was in life," Kharza heard Ralof say under his breath.

Then, a strange and terrible sound came rolling in from the distance. Faint though it was, it echoed through the hills. The fur on the back of Kharza's neck stood on end. The noise sounded familiar, though he could not for the life of him determine where or when he had heard it before. There was chattering among the crowd and the soldiers. The Stormcloaks looked to the sky with chilled expressions.

"What was that?" Kharza heard one of the soldiers ask.

"It's nothing," General Tullius said gruffly. "Carry on."

The captain kicked the twitching corpse away from the block, reached into the basket and lifted up the head for all to see. She tossed the head to the ground and turned to face the prisoners once more. "Next, the cat!" she called.

Kharza's pulse quickened. He took a deep breath and took a step forward, then another, and another. Time seemed to slow as he approached the block. I suppose this is it, he thought.

That sound again, like a roar. Still distant ... but definitely closer. Kharza kept his eyes forward and did not stop.

"There it is again," said another soldier. "What _is _that?"

Kharza stopped in front of the captain. She wore a smirk as she spoke to him.

"I would've had you die first, if not for your foolish comrade lying over there. I hope Oblivion takes you, you worthless shit."

The heat rose in Kharza's face. He hissed angrily at the captain, causing her to flinch. She grabbed Kharza by the shoulder and punched him low in the back. The weight of her heavy bracer reinforced her fist; pain shot through Kharza's legs, and he fell to his knees in front of the block.

_Worth it again, you smooth-skinned bitch, _Kharza thought.

A boot in his back kicked him forward. He hit the block hard, the edge digging into his chest. He did his best to hide the pain and turned his head to face the executioner. If he was to die, he would face his killer with pride.

Behind his eyes, he prayed. _Great Alkosh, merciful S'rendarr, sweetest Mother Mara ... watch over my son._ The words resounded inside his head as the executioner raised his axe.

Then Kharza saw it. Black as ebony with great, terrible wings and a long tail flying over the hill faster than any creature that size possibly could.

"What on Oblivion is that?" shouted General Tullius.

The creature landed hard on top of the tower, knocking loose many stones. The ground shook, and the headsman stumbled, turning around to see what was going on. The creature's eyes fixated on Kharza, burning wickedly.

"Dragon!" shouted the soldiers. The townsfolk screamed, the soldiers shouted, the prisoners gasped, but Kharza's eyes stayed locked with the creature's. It seemed to be reveling in the chaos.

The dragon opened its mouth and let forth a short, violent roar. A great wave of energy washed over the square. Kharza was stunned when he saw the sky turn red. Surely such a thing couldn't be happening, but when the dark, angry clouds began swirling overhead and fire began to rain down from the sky, Kharza could not deny reality any longer.

The infantrymen drew their swords. Archers let fly a barrage of arrows, but nothing seemed to deter the beast. A stampede had begun in the square, and those who lost their footing were trampled by panicked spectators running for their lives. A ball of fire landed on one side of the mob, consuming many. The screams of fear and agony curdled Kharza's blood.

The dragon roared again, and a blast of air hit Kharza hard, knocking him to the side with such force that he slid along the square for some distance. The cobblestones tore his canvas tunic to shreds, and his vision went blurry once more.


	2. Escape

_Felt "little cub" was a better suited to a Khajiit than some random Nord kid.  
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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Escape<strong>

Kharza could hear nothing. Everything was out of focus, as though he were viewing the world from under the surface of the sea.

He felt a hand grip his shoulder. He was being shaken, as if to be awoken from some kind of terrible nightmare.

His ears were ringing, but sounds started becoming clearer. The shrieks of women; the terrible impact of the fire falling from the sky all around him; and a voice, seemingly calling his name.

It was very faint at first.

"Kharza!"

The Khajiit gasped. His lungs were full again. His heart pounded in his chest. He was still alive.

"Hey, Kharza!" shouted the voice again. "Get up, Khajiit! The gods won't give us another chance!"

Kharza's vision began to clear. He struggled to his knees. The hand on his shoulder was tugging desperately at what remained of his tunic, trying hard to haul him onto his feet.

Kharza's eyes snapped to the side. It was Ralof.

_Find your footing, little cub_, he heard his father's voice say inside his head.

A sudden wave of adrenaline surged through the Khajiit. He sprang to his feet.

"Quickly, into the tower!" he heard Ralof shout.

Kharza and Ralof bolted ahead. A woman in the doorway urged them forward with frantic waves of her hand. The men made it to the tower, finding several other Stormcloaks as well as Ulfric himself inside.

Kharza slumped against the wall. He was finding it very difficult to catch his breath. His mind instinctively flashed back to father's training sessions years ago.

_"Breathe through your nose," his father told him. "In through your nose, out through your nose. Breathe into your gut. Let the elements give you strength."_

Kharza closed his eyes, and his mouth. He inhaled slowly, filling himself with life. His head was pounding again. He envisioned the pain in his head as tendrils snaking into his stomach as he exhaled. He heard Ralof and Ulfric conversing next to him, but he paid their talk no mind. He focused on releasing the tendrils of pain through his nostrils, breathing out much of his aching and distress.

Kharza opened his eyes. His mind was focused now. He turned to Ralof.

"I will go upstairs to see if I can find a way out of here," he said. He made it halfway up the staircase before encountering another Stormcloak trying to clear a path through the rubble blocked the way up.

"The ceiling must have caved," the Stormcloak panted as he scrabbled at the stone. "If I can just-"

The wall ahead blew inwards, knocking Kharza off balance. He saw the tip of the dragon's snout and heard a sharp intake of air.

_"YOL ... TOOR SHUL!"_

A raging gout of flame flew forth from the dragon's mouth. Intense heat filled the tower, causing Kharza to squeeze his eyes shut and cover them with his arms. When he opened his eyes again, he could see nothing of the man who stood in front of him just a moment ago. The Stormcloak had been vaporized by the blaze.

Kharza's eyes went wide. It was unbearably hot inside the tower, but the Khajiit felt a chill run down his spine. That dragon had just spoken fire.

Kharza heard footsteps behind him. Ralof was vaulting up the stairs three at a time to see what had happened. A look of dread washed over him.

Kharza put his back to the wall, taking a glance outside and quickly returning to cover. The dragon was somewhere else for now. Kharza peered outside again, looking left and right, searching frantically.

"That inn on the other side," Ralof said, pointing directly ahead. "See if you can make it across. I'll catch up to you when I can."

Kharza was good at jumping. He leapt through the gaping hole into the morning air before realizing the fire on the roof of the inn had spread to the floor on the second story. He barely had time to regret his decision before he crashed through the floorboards.

The landing was painful, but the buckling wood had taken some of the force from the fall. Kharza's shoulder took the rest of it. The pain was not unbearable, and Kharza was strong, but he was shaky climbing to his feet.

His father's words again: _Live or die, little cub._ Kharza's choice was easy.

The door was blocked by a fallen beam. The smoke inside was thick, and there was creaking overhead. There wasn't much time. Kharza dropped to the floor and scanned the room, quickly finding a spot where light had broken through the burning wall. He took as large a breath as he could, leapt up and kicked a hole through the charred wood. He threw himself out into the street just in time to hear the building collapse behind him. He thanked the thief-god Rajhin for his luck.

Kharza wished he knew the layout of the town. So many paths were blocked by fallen structures or thick walls of flame, and Kharza's hands were still bound. His eye caught a glimmer in the rubble ahead-as luck would have it, a broken sword.

More thanks to Rajhin.

Kharza looped his wrists over the remainder of the blade and quickly sawed through his bonds. Now he could climb. He scrambled up a segment of stone wall. He saw he was back at the square, and he spotted an entrance to the keep on the far side.

The Khajiit jumped down and made a beeline for the center of the square, jumping over corpses and piles of ash as he went. He skidded to a halt when he saw three screaming children running toward an Imperial soldier ...

Time slowed again as the dragon landed, crushing a little girl. Kharza's stomach lurched as he saw the blood splatter stretching endlessly in front of the dragon's claw. The other children fell to the ground.

The dragon spoke in a terrible booming voice. The language was unknown, yet strangely familiar; the dragon was clearly taunting the Imperials. Arrows struck the dragon from all angles, but nothing seemed to affect it. When the dragon shouted again, it sounded like thunder. Any soldier caught in the shockwave was hurled backwards like a flea flicked off the skin.

Then the dragon stopped speaking. Slowly it turned its head and looked upon Kharza with a ghost of ... recognition ... in his eyes.

For reasons unknown to the Khajiit, he, too, felt the twinge when he locked eyes with the dragon. He decided he did not like the dragon.

Ears flattened. Eyes narrowed. Teeth bared. Claws out.

_Live or die, little cub. Either way, make it count._

A random arrow found its mark dead-center in the dragon's eye. The creature howled as black liquid spurted from its wound. It flapped its great wings and in an instant had taken back to the sky above.

The children, Kharza thought. He sprinted forward and scooped one up in each arm, spiriting them away from the gruesome remains of their friend spread across the square. He made for the keep. Ralof came into view, an axe in his hand.

"Ralof, you Gods-damned traitor!" shouted a man from behind. Kharza recognized the voice-it was the list-man. He turned and set the sobbing children on their feet, kneeling between them and holding them close.

"You're not stopping us this time, Hadvar!" Ralof replied.

The list-man Hadvar took a breath, as if to say something, but stopped when he noticed the children.

Everyone heard the roar of the dragon as he circled back around, no doubt for another assault.

"You there, Imperial," Kharza said. "Are the soldiers helping the survivors to safety?"

"Yes, there's an evacuation in progress," Hadvar replied.

"Good. Get these children out of here."

Kharza stood up and turned to Ralof. "Let's go, friend."

"Wait!" called Hadvar as Ralof opened the door to the keep. "You need to come with me! You're still condemned men!"

Kharza hurried inside and slammed the door behind him. Hopefully the list-man was competent enough to get the children to safety and not come chasing after a man with an axe and another man with claws and fangs.

The children, Kharza thought. He sank to his knees. Whatever strength had prevented his stomach from turning before was failing him now. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through it, but all he could think about was the little girl in the square. A child who before today had had her whole life ahead of her ... and in a whirlwind of fire and chaos and death and destruction she was torn away from the world in a mess of blood. Kharza retched and heaved; the bile burned his throat, even after giving all he had to the cold stone floor.

Kharza saw Ralof kneeling in front of a dead comrade. There was blood on the dead man's lips. Kharza guessed something had broken inside. The man had made it all the way down to this empty chamber, and now sat propped against the wall, eyes open but no life in him. Kharza saw Ralof gently brush the man's lids closed.

"We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother," Ralof said softly, resting his forehead against his fallen comrade's.

Kharza stood. He closed his eyes. He breathed.

"Might as well take Gunjar's axe," Ralof said, walking to Kharza's side. "He won't be needing it anymore. And here, take this-you look like you could use it."

Kharza reached out his hand to receive Ralof's offering, a vial full of some dark, thick liquid.

A healing potion. S'rendarr's mercy.

Kharza uncorked the vial and drained it. The potion made him gag, but the effects were almost immediate. Now, at least, he felt stable again. He took the heavy iron war axe off the dead man and tested its weight. Crude weapon, but it would do.

Ralof spoke. "There must be a way out. I know there's a cave under the keep, and with any luck we should be able to find it further down."

A door on one side of the chamber, a small gate on the other. Kharza tested the door. "Locked," he grumbled.

"Should we try and break them down?" Ralof asked.

Kharza's ear twitched. He heard voices.

"Footsteps and voices," he whispered urgently. "Three of them, behind the gate."

"Keep that axe ready," Ralof replied.

Kharza nodded and tiptoed to the gate, pressing his back against the wall to the side, listening intently. Ralof did the same on the other side. It was dark, but Kharza saw well in the dark. He saw the leather armor of foot soldiers and another figure in front. He noted The gleam of Imperial armor and a familiar angry woman's voice.

"We need to find Ulfric and take him back into custody immediately. Dragon or no dragon, I'm not having my chances of promotion go to shit! Lower the gate!"

Kharza's ears flattened. _Hello, Captain_.

As soon as the gate came down, Kharza pounced. He hacked down both accompanying soldiers with his axe in the blink of an eye. The captain turned on her heel and had her hand on the hilt of her sword, but she was far too slow for Kharza. He kicked hard at the captain's knee. It buckled backwards with a sickening crack, and the captain screamed.

Kharza knelt down beside the captain. He removed her dagger and tossed it over to the other side of the chamber. He pinned her sword hand down with his knee. He grabbed her under her jaw and turned her face towards him. Tears of pain were cascading down the woman's cheeks.

"Looks like Oblivion takes you first, smooth skin," Kharza growled. The screams of agony picked back up after he let go of the captain's jaw. He stood up slowly ... then chambered his knee and brought his heel down hard on the Imperial's face.

Another crack, followed by blood oozing from nose, ears and eyes on a face caved in. The captain's foot twitched.

Kharza and Ralof searched the bodies and quickly found a key to the door on the other side.

"Come on," urged Ralof. "We need to move quickly."

A downward staircase awaited on the other side of the door. They reached an archway that opened into a large room. Cages and shackles-a torture room. Two dead Imperials on the floor, and a woman chained to a table, absent clothing. Kharza tiptoed forward and placed two fingers on the woman's neck. She had no pulse, and she was cold. He looked back to Ralof and shook his head. Ralof sighed.

Another door in the back of the room, unlocked this time. On the other door was a small cave chamber.

"We must be getting close," Ralof whispered.

Kharza caught the sounds of fighting in another chamber up ahead and rushed forward. Two Stormcloak women were trying to take down a large Imperial soldier wielding a wicked-looking warhammer. A few steps on the other side of the cave floor, and another Imperial atop them. This one held a bow and was drawing an arrow from a quiver.

Kharza judged the distance. He reached back and hurled his axe at the soldier up top. The axe whirled through the air and found its target; the blade cut deep into the archer's chest.

More thanks to Rajhin. Kharza was not used to throwing axes.

Ralof ran forward and lunged at the big Imperial. A mighty swing of his axe saw the man's face split in two. Ralof yanked his weapon free of the Imperial's skull; Kharza saw blood and bone fragments come out with it.

Ralof turned to the other Stormcloaks.

"Did Jarl Ulfric come through here?"

"No," one of the women answered. "We were going to hold here, see if maybe he came through after a while. You two go on ahead."

"Thank you, sister," Ralof replied. "Talos guard you."

The tunnel ahead was dark, so Kharza took the lead once again, making sure to retrieve his axe. A giant spider the likes of which Kharza had never seen took him by surprise deeper into the cave. Its fangs came close, but Kharza managed to cut it down.

"Frostbite spider," Ralof said. "I hate these fucking things. Too many eyes, you know?"

"Among other things," Kharza replied, trying to calm himself. Kharza decided he did not like frostbite spiders.

It wasn't long before Kharza saw daylight. He rushed toward it, with Ralof close behind. They ran out into the daylight and kept running until they reached the banks of a river.

Kharza heard a roar from behind and grabbed Ralof's shoulder, jerking him backwards under the cover of a large tree. The shadow of giant wings passed them by, and Kharza saw the dragon fly off toward the mountains.

The two sat with their backs to the tree for a while until the dragon became a speck in the distance.

"Looks like he's done for now," Ralof said.

"We need to get out of here," Kharza said. "Soon the hills will be full of Imperials."

"Riverwood," Ralof replied, pointing north. "Not half a day's journey from here. It's where I grew up. My sister, Gerdur, runs the mill there. I'm sure she'll help us out. For now, it's probably best if we split up. Follow the river, stay off the road. I'll see you in town."

Kharza nodded.

"I will be there."


	3. Riverwood

_Many thanks to everyone following this story-I hope you're enjoying it so far. Also, please feel free to give me feedback. I appreciate outside opinions._

_Note: Apparently I'm an idiot and thought Riverwood was in Falkreath Hold for some reason. Minor edit, doesn't detract at all from the story. Hopefully you can forgive me. XD  
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><p><strong>Chapter 3: Riverwood<strong> 

The walking was easy. Years spent practicing the Two-Moons Dance had toughened Kharza's feet, so he did not pine for boots. The problem lay in that Kharza hadn't eaten since before he was captured, and although burning images of the morning's events suppressed his appetite, the fear and the anger and the nerves and the fighting and the running and everything else had taken a toll on his body. Weak though he felt, he pressed on; if Riverwood was half a day from the cave, then he figured he was halfway there.

Kharza stopped only when he knew he needed water, and he kept his trips to the riverbank brief. Ralof had warned him to stay off the road, after all. Kharza did not want to risk being seen any more than was necessary.

Kharza thanked Khenarthi for the trees. The forest was unfamiliar, but he knew how to take advantage of the cover they provided. He kept his axe in hand but prayed he wouldn't find cause to use it and weaken himself further.

Many hours passed, but the sun still shone brightly in the sky, a reminder of how far north Kharza was. The midsummer air was warm, and the birds and cicadas filled the forest with music. Every tree began to look like a good place to stop and rest for a while, but Kharza knew that he would drift into slumber if he did. There would be time for sleep once he reached Riverwood.

The sun's warm glow began to fade as it started its slow descent into the western horizon. Kharza breathed a sigh of relief as the outskirts of town at last came into view through the trees. He made his way back to the road and quickened his pace as much as his aching legs allowed. He tucked his axe into the waistband of his ragged trousers; the blade was covered in dried blood, and he did not want to be perceived as a threat.

As Kharza entered the town, he saw a man step off the porch of a large wooden building to the right and walk into the middle of the road-a constable or guard of some sort, by the look of him. The man held out his hand, signaling for Kharza to stop.

"What business do you have here, Khajiit?" the man asked in a stern voice.

"I seek a woman named Gerdur," Kharza replied. "This is Riverwood, yes?"

"Aye, this is Riverwood. What do you want with Gerdur?"

"I was told by her brother that she might be able to help me."

Kharza noticed the man's eyes take a quick glimpse at the axe in his waistband.

"You look like you just had the fight of your life," the guard said. His hand moved noticeably closer to the hilt of his sword. "You in some kind of trouble, cat?"

"It's all right!" said a familiar voice. Kharza looked toward the source; it was Ralof. He'd been too focused on the guard to see the blond man approach.

Ralof was beaming as he grasped Kharza's forearm. "I was wondering when you'd show up. Come on, Gerdur's just finishing up at the mill."

"Wait," said the guard. "You know this Khajiit?"

Ralof gave the man a serious look. "This man saved my life earlier today."

Ralof turned and started down the road toward a sawmill at the river's edge. A giant water wheel turned lazily as it was fed by the current. Kharza saw a number of men and women chopping wood. Among them were a number of Wood Elves, which Kharza thought was odd; he hadn't seen a Bosmer since he left Bruma.

"Gerdur!" Ralof called.

A woman leaned over the railing up top. Kharza could see the family resemblance immediately.

"Is this your friend?" the woman called back. "Hold on, I'll be right down."

Moments later, the woman Gerdur came up to greet the two men.

"Ralof told me what happened. Divines bless you for helping my brother get to us in one piece. What's your name?"

"Kharza, at your service," the Khajiit said with a tip of his head. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

Gerdur smiled before turning back to the mill. "Hod!" she shouted.

No answer. Gerdur groaned.

"Hod! I need you a minute!"

A burly man with an even burlier moustache peered out from around the corner. "Shor's bones, what _is _it, woman?" he called back. "I'm busy over here!"

"Hod, just _come here_!"

Kharza caught a brief glance from Hod, whose whole demeanor changed. The stocky man walked briskly over to where everyone else was standing.

"So, you finally made it!" Hod laughed. He extended his hand to Kharza. "I'm Hod, Gerdur's husband."

"My name is Kharza," the Khajiit said, firmly grasping the big man's forearm.

The hefty man smiled through his thick moustache. "Well, Kharza, Ralof told us about what happened to you two. Words aren't enough to tell you how thankful we are to have our Ralof here in one piece. We're just finishing up work for the day; stick around a few minutes and we'll head back to the house for supper. Gods know you look like you could use some food and rest."

The last of the cicadas were singing their final verses as the group walked through town, but the crickets and bullfrogs were only getting started. The moons had just begun their nightly trek across the sky. Mothers were calling children inside to eat, husbands were just coming home to their wives, and many of the townsfolk headed into what Kharza took to be the local inn for some downtime after a long day. Some of the houses had little yards with chickens wandering around. Riverwood reminded Kharza very much of the home he left years before. In that moment, his heart sank a little.

On the far side of town were several small farms; Gerdur and Hod's was the largest, but their house was modest. Out in front were a boy of maybe nine or ten years and a dog adorned in a ridiculous array of sticks and leaves. The boy was no doubt Gerdur's son; even in the pale moonlight, the resemblance was uncanny.

Gerdur sighed. "Frodnar, what are you doing?"

The boy looked at Gerdur with a smile. "What do you think, Mama? Doesn't Stump look just like a frostbite spider?"

Kharza shuddered at the thought.

"Frodnar, this is no time for your games," Gerdur scolded. "We have company."

The boy looked at Kharza as Hod unlocked the door to the house. "Are you Uncle Ralof's friend? The one he was talking about?"

Kharza smiled. "Even so. My name is Kharza." The Khajiit extended his hand, and Frodnar gripped his forearm. "Ah, a strong handshake! Well met, Frodnar."

"Well met," the boy replied. "Are we eating soon, Mama? I'm pretty hungry."

Kharza was the last inside. He locked the door behind him, as he was used to doing.

"I'm afraid we don't have anything special tonight," Hod said. "Work days are long during the summer so there isn't much time to cook. There's plenty of smoked salmon, though, and we have all the cheese and bread you can eat."

Kharza attacked the food mere seconds after Gerdur put it on the table. He loaded his plate with a mountain of salmon and took for himself a loaf of the crusty bread and a quarter of the massive cheese wheel. The Nords just looked at him as he savaged his meal; Gerdur hadn't even passed out the mead yet. Kharza was about to sink his teeth into another piece of bread when he felt his hosts' eyes on him, and took a look up with his mouth still wide open. The Nords burst into laughter.

"You've certainly got a healthy appetite!" Hod chuckled.

"My apologies," Kharza replied, setting down his piece of bread. "I have not eaten for quite a while. This cheese is delicious."

"Make it myself," Hod said with a proud grin. "There's always plenty to go around."

Kharza smiled. "My father used to say that one must eat to live and one must live to win; therefore, one must eat to win."

"I fear for anyone who crosses you when you're well-fed, then," Ralof laughed, turning his eyes to his kin. "You should have seen him this morning. I've never seen anyone fight like that."

Kharza tipped his head. "You honor my father's memory, friend; he taught me well."

"He's no longer living?" Gerdur asked, handing the Khajiit a bottle of mead.

Kharza sighed as he took the drink from Gerdur, setting it down in front of his plate. "He was taken from us when I was still very young. The Thalmor broke into our house and stole him away in the night. The man would not go without a fight, though—three of the elves lay dead on the floor before the Justiciar subdued my father with magic." He took a long pull of his drink. "When my mother tried to intervene, she was struck to the ground. She never recovered from her wounds, neither the one in her leg nor the one in her heart."

Silence gripped the room. Kharza took another gulp of mead.

"My father was taken because he refused to accept the elves as the saviors of Khajiit. The Void Nights were terrible times for my people, and when the Altmer came to us and said that they were responsible for the return of the moons, many Khajiit were too happy to throw themselves under the heels of the Thalmor usurpers. My father never believed a word of it—he knew that the elves took credit for closing the gates of Oblivion when they had no hand in it, just as he knew they had no hand in the moons coming back to us. He spoke out against the elves, and for that they punished him. I have missed my father very much."

More silence. Kharza turned his bottle back and forth on the table in front of him for a moment before taking another drink. Ralof spoke.

"What happened to you after that?"

"Ah," Kharza said, setting his bottle back down. "My uncle knew our home was not safe for any of us after that. He made arrangements, and within the week we were all on the road to Cyrodiil—myself, my mother, my cousins, my uncles and aunts. My family had connections in Cheydinhal, so that was where we went. My uncles were good traders and superb blacksmiths, so we did not go hungry for long. I learned how to smith, and my cousins helped keep the books. My mother did not live for long; they say she died of a fever, but I knew she died of a broken heart."

Another long drink, and Kharza's bottle was finished. He placed the empty vessel in the middle of his table and wiped his lips. Gerdur handed him another bottle of mead; he nodded politely with a sad smile. He paused for another slow sip and continued his story.

"Things went well for us in Cheydinhal. Many among the town guard and even the local soldiers came to the shop to buy weapons and armor. It made me proud whenever they picked things I had made, and as I grew in skill the customers came in greater numbers. My uncles made sure I trained in my arts every day. I put all my heart into my smithing and my fighting, and both helped me bring in much coin for my family.

"One day, when I was fourteen, I found myself alone in the shop. My uncles had gone to the mines to buy more metal, and my aunts and cousins were at market. A Khajiit girl came in to buy jewelry. She was the tailor's daughter—I had seen her many times before, but we hadn't spoken before then. She lingered at the counter after she made her purchase. Her name was Zaynehb. I still remember her smile, and the impatient soldier behind her telling her to get on with it.

"Zaynehb and I began spending a lot of time together. Before long I was making up stories to tell my family so I could run off into the night to be with her. Sometimes we would manage to get our hands on some brandy or moon sugar, and on those nights we spent many hours …"

Kharza paused, remembering that Frodnar was in the room.

"… Many hours 'entertaining' one another. A month after we met, she came to me with tears in her eyes and told me she was with child. We were both so young.

"I can still feel the sting in my cheek from when my aunt slapped me. I remember seeing her hang her head, but she embraced me and held me close and told me things would be all right. My uncles were clearly disappointed, but they surprised me by telling me they knew I could handle everything. Oh, how they argued with the tailor. The man was furious; he said he would cut off my tail and use it for a new belt. My uncles confronted him and told him it was unwise to make such threats, and the man backed down. My uncles had a reputation in our neighborhood, and the tailor knew better than to cross them. We all agreed that Zaynehb would move into my room, as it was my duty to care for her while she carried my child.

"The months passed. I worked very hard at the smithy and began fighting in the larger underground tournaments for extra money. I would return home late at night battered and bloodied, but my drive to win ensured that my pockets were lined with gold. Some days I thought of taking every last Septim and stealing away in the night, but I quickly removed such thoughts from mind. My parents might have been gone, but I knew they were watching me, and I would not shame them by shirking my responsibilities.

"The day my son was born was the happiest day of my life. There were tears on my cheeks when I held him in my arms and kissed his forehead. I named him 'Markun,' after my father. He was my heart. That night I swore in blood to the gods that I would do everything in my power to protect him."

"You never mentioned you had a son," Ralof said quietly.

"My apologies, friend," Kharza smiled sadly. "We were heading to our doom, and my mind was troubled."

"A fair point," the Nord conceded, taking a swig of mead. "But with a son in Cyrodiil, what brought you to Skyrim?"

"Ah," Kharza said. "Sometimes things do not play out as simply as we wish them to.

"The first years of my life as a father were quite simple. My steel was strong and deadly sharp, and my skill as a fighter grew so much that nobody could best me. I worked hard beside my uncles and trained hard beside my cousins. When my son grew restless in the night, I told him stories and sang him back to sleep. Zaynehb, though … she talked to me less and less. When Markun cried, she would complain of headaches. I began to notice money missing, and whenever I confronted her she would snap at me and tell me that she was the one ensuring our son's health and happiness while I occupied myself with my silly endeavors. I began keeping my money under lock and key.

"Then one day I found two empty skooma bottles. I tried talking to Zaynehb about it; I said I knew our lives were difficult as young parents, but our son came first. Zaynehb just shrieked at me and told me she needed it to get through the day knowing that I had ruined her life. Too many nights we fought. Too many nights my son came to me with sorrow in his eyes, asking if his mother was all right. One morning I awoke before the sun to find Zaynehb gone.

"Things went from bad to worse. My uncles were playing cards with friends one night at the tavern. A couple of newcomers had joined the group and were displeased with the piles of Septims my uncles had in front of them. They accused my uncles of cheating. Things escalated, and both men wound up dead. My uncles were arrested and imprisoned for life in some Gods-forsaken mine down south. The authorities never told us where to find them, and we never heard from them again.

"Then, my cousin Atehbi took ill. She suffered terribly for a week before dying in the night. I can still hear her, whimpering in agony late at night. She was my best friend; I lost a part of my heart when she passed.

"Business was suffering. Everyone knew of what happened with my uncles, and we became pariahs as a result. The business accrued a massive debt, and Zaynehb's father refused to help us. Our creditors told me I could pay them off by fighting in the lowest circles of the underworld, where men fought to the death with blades. I've never felt as sick in my life as I did when I killed for the first time. I was eighteen. All I could think about when I closed my eyes to sleep was my father hanging his head in shame. The visions still haunt me.

"I felt I was losing my soul. My cousins and I were forced to close the store. Fortunately we had some friends left, and my cousins made arrangements to move to the Imperial City. Markun was to go with them. I was thankful that my son would not have to remain in the pit of despair Cheydinhal had become for us.

"I lost my home, but my remaining savings ensured that I had a roof over my head and food in my belly. I became assistant to a butcher in the market place; he was a serious but kind man, and he made certain I had coin in my pocket and plenty of fresh meat. He let me make the trip to the Imperial City every few weeks to see my family. Things were starting to look better for me, and I found myself smiling again. Being away from my son was difficult, but my life was simple and the days were good.

"Years passed before trouble found me again in the form of a thief. I was taking on my way to the cobbler one afternoon to have a hole in my shoe repaired when a man bumped into me. He apologized with a smile as if he had simply not paid attention to his surroundings, but I did not trust the look in his eye. When he passed by me I searched my pockets; my coin purse was missing. I turned and saw him weaving his way through the crowd. I followed and caught up with him as he was turning into an alleyway, and I beat him. I took back my money thinking that there would be nothing more to it, but I found out later that the pickpocket was well connected. Men came after me with daggers, and I killed them. I remained out of sight for the rest of the day, and when night fell I made my way to the stables outside the city walls. I stole a horse and made for the Imperial City.

"It did not take me long to find my cousins. I told them of what had happened, and they in turn told me that they were once again in debt. Cyrodiil had clearly become unsafe for us. My cousins mentioned that a good number of Khajiit were running trade caravans up north in Skyrim. It was the only thing left to do. We were to meet in Bruma, cross the border together and make for the city of Solitude. I told my son to go with them, that I loved him and that I would see him soon.

"Circumstances would force me to stay in the capital for a few days, so I told my cousins I would catch up to them in Bruma. I traded everything I had for gold, even the clothes I had on my back. I used to wear gold hoops in my ears and braids; I traded them for a sword and made for Bruma. It took me longer than I had expected to reach the city, and when I arrived my cousins were nowhere to be found. I remembered the name Solitude and struck out for the border. What happened after that … well, I think you already know what happened after that."

The only sounds in the room were those of the fire crackling and Stump the dog snoring softly.

"Mara's mercy," Gerdur said. She stood up and walked around the table to Kharza's side, placing her hand on his shoulder.

Kharza did not speak, instead favoring his mead and the food on his plate.

"If there's anything we can do for you, Kharza … you just let us know," Hod said.

"I thank you, friend," Kharza replied. "I would be grateful for a few days of rest, if I'm not asking too much."

"It goes without saying," Gerdur said. "You and Ralof will stay here to mend. Other business can wait."

The evening wound down peacefully. Frodnar was sent to bed, but the adults sat at the table and continued to talk. There was still plenty of mead and plenty of cheese and bread. Kharza ate and drank and listened to Ralof talk of the war, of the Stormcloaks and Imperials and the cursed Aldmeri Dominion. The talk turned to Helgen and the dragon attack.

"Kharza, I don't mean to burden you by asking this, but you'd be doing us all a great service if you went to the Jarl in Whiterun and told him of the dragon attack. Our town doesn't have many guards, certainly not enough to take on a dragon. Would you do this thing for us?"

Kharza nodded. "Of course. You are my friends, and I will help in any way I can."

Gerdur and Hod headed for bed shortly thereafter. Kharza told Ralof to take the spare bed, shushing the Nord when he tried to argue. There were many blankets, and Kharza was happy to sleep on the floor. He was happy he would get to sleep at all.

When Kharza finally lay down, he felt the full effects of the food and mead. He closed his eyes, and within moments was sound asleep in front of the dying fire.


	4. The Wall in the Crypt

**Chapter 4: The Wall in the Crypt**

Kharza woke early in the morning, as he always did when sleeping in unfamiliar rooms. He winced as he rose to his feet, the sore spot in his thigh a reminder to remove his axe from his person when next he lay down to sleep.

He took a moment to roll his head and scratch the itch in his cheek, then padded silently to the door and exited the house, doing his best to ensure that the door didn't make too much noise. The air was brisk, and a thin blanket of mist hung low over the ground. Kharza shivered slightly; he had not yet grown accustomed to the colder climate. He walked slowly into the center of the yard, taking his axe out of his waistband and setting it on the ground. He turned to face the river and closed his eyes, drawing a large breath of the chilly morning air. His father's voice spoke to him as he readied himself.

_Your body should be as water, for water flows without effort. Being as water, you will not tire quickly. You will move with the terrible force of waves crashing upon the shore._

Kharza's moved his hands in slow, fluid circles through the air around him. His body turned and swayed like a stalk of wheat blowing lazily in the wind.

_You must remain focused, little cub. When facing enemies, one cannot allow his troubles to make him an enemy unto himself. Clear your mind and set it to purpose._

Kharza's powerful arms rippled with energy as they whirled through the air. His movements became faster and faster until his hands were a blur in the waning moonlight, then gradually slower until he once again stood still and straight. He closed his eyes and once again drew long breath through his nostrils, exhaling slowly as his hands came back down to his waist.

_Ready stance._

Kharza's hands came up. His feet twisted in the dirt as he assumed his position.

_Look. Block. First control. Break. Punch._

Kharza imagined a faceless, wooden man in front of him as his arms and hands tore the air. His father told him that giving faces to imaginary enemies made it difficult to focus one's anger at those with different faces when it came time to do so.

_Your strikes must be as the wind, for nothing can stop the wind. It does not break upon obstacles in its path, but howls around and through them. The wind penetrates even tears at the flesh of the mighty mountains, no matter whether or not the eye perceives it so._

A hammering elbow strike to the opponent's neck. A quick spin around to put the entirety of his weight behind a vicious, sweeping claw attack to the wooden man's face. A powerful snap of his leg to put his foot right through the taper at the bottom of the enemy's breastbone.

_A kick up the middle is the only kick that can penetrate an enemy's guard. Often times it is better to favor precision over power._

Kharza's body was a whirlwind, whipping up wisps of mist as his punches and kicks rent the air.

_Your legs must be as the earth, for no matter the fury unleashed upon it by storm and sea, the earth remains solid, strong. Let the earth grant you its strength. Channel its solidity and let it course through you from the tips of your toes to the top of your head._

Kharza planted his feet in the earth and put his fists at his waist. His fists pounded at the darkness; he threw his hips and breath into every strike.

_Most importantly, little cub—your eyes must be as fire, burning bright and terrible in the face of adversity. Whatever fear you feel, let your enemy see none. Swallow your fear and transform it into a blaze of wrath and might. Turn your fear upon your enemy and see him tremble before the flames of your fury._

Kharza brought his feet back together and stood up tall. He closed his eyes and filled his belly with air, willing his quickened pace to slow. He breathed out and relaxed, taking a moment to stretch his arms over his head. He turned and paced over to the axe he'd left lying on the ground. He picked up the weapon, and his movements began again.

* * *

><p>Hours of practice and exercise passed before the darkness began to lift. The sky was awash in rich purples and reds as the sun ever-so-slowly climbed its way over the mountains. Kharza's silvery-white glowed, for they had never beheld such a sunrise; bearing witness to its beauty made the Khajiit's heart ache.<p>

Gerdur was the first one up and about after Kharza. She greeted him with arms full of Hod's clothing, assuring a worried Kharza that her husband wouldn't mind. Kharza was afraid of imposing on his gracious hosts, but Gerdur laid his concerns to rest by telling him he could help around the farm. It was the weekend and the mill was closed, but there was still plenty to do at home.

Kharza took advantage of the early hour by heading to a patch of the river just outside of town to bathe. He caught sight of many of the Wood Elves he saw working at the mill the other day and was apprehensive about removing his trousers, but when a man emerged from the water naked as the day he was born and waved a cheerful greeting to Kharza, the Khajiit's mind was put at ease—at least until he felt the eyes of some of the bolder Bosmer women fixed on him as he washed. Though they were smiling, his cheeks still burned with embarrassment.

The clothes fit fairly well. Hod was big and tall, but Kharza was broad in his back and thick in his legs. He simply rolled up his sleeves and trouser legs and everything was fine. He did wish he had a pair of shoes, but there were worse things in the world than dirty feet.

One of the tasks Gerdur laid out for Kharza was to fetch some supplies from the Riverwood Trader. The errand seemed simple enough.

The town's general store was quite impressive. There was a wide variety in its stock—tall shelves held all manner of tools, cooking and eating utensils, clothing, food, and the wall behind the counter even had weapons on it. Kharza's silver-white eyes gleamed at the sight of shiny daggers, but alas he had no coin. He sighed … and realized that nobody seemed to be around. Perhaps he had come too early? He couldn't have, though, for the door was unlocked when he arrived.

Kharza's ears twitched. Voices, coming through the wooden ceiling. Kharza couldn't make out words, but the voices were definitely a man and a woman. They sounded like they were arguing.

Kharza made his way to the stairs in the back. The closer he got, the clearer the voices became. He padded up the wooded steps slowly; he knew eavesdropping was wrong, but something compelled him to listen in.

"… can't believe you, Lucan. I can't believe you would just sit back and let that thief get away with robbing us. Where's your pride?"

"So what, Camilla? You're going to run off into the hills by yourself to go look for him? You're going to singlehandedly take on all the wolves, trolls saber cats and bandits that come at you and then wander down into a dangerous Nord crypt? Gods only know what's hiding in there! You imply I've lost my pride, but dear sister, it seems you've lost your head."

"Well something has to be done."

"Just leave it. What's gone is gone."

"Lucan—"

"I said _leave _it. We're not talking about this anymore."

By now, Kharza was standing in the doorway. He was surprised the two hadn't noticed him by now. He cleared his throat, and the man and woman turned their heads with shock in their eyes.

"Divines' sake, man, you scared the shit out of me!" the man Lucan exclaimed.

"The store is downstairs, if you couldn't tell," the woman Camilla said, her voice dripping with indignation. She looked to be just out of her teens, a fact her attitude reflected.

"Yes, I noticed," Kharza replied. "Gerdur sent me to pick up the supplies she ordered."

Lucan sighed. "Yeah, sure. Head over to the counter, I'll be right down."

Kharza went back downstairs and stood at the counter. More muffled voices through the ceiling. Kharza understood that something had the man and his sister upset, but he, too, had worked in a shop, and he never let his troubles get in the way of business. The lack of professionalism here was rather annoying.

It was a few minutes before Lucan joined him at the counter with a canvas sack in hand. The man ducked under the counter and in another minute the sack was full.

"Here you go," Lucan said. "I'm afraid I wasn't able to get the new saw blades Gerdur wanted. The shipment was delayed, but everything should be here in the next few days."

"I will pass along the message," Kharza replied. He paused. "I am unsure how to go about this without intruding, but … did something happen?"

Lucan sighed. "How much did you hear?"

"Only general arguing," Kharza shrugged, "but nothing specific."

"I don't want to take up any of your time," Lucan said.

"Of that, I have plenty. Go ahead—tell me your story."

Lucan and Camilla were Imperials; that much Kharza had already gathered from their classic Cyrodiilic features. They had come to Skyrim following the death of their father and the subsequent loss of investment in the business he built. It took years of hard work, but Lucan made enough coin working at a local meadery to open a small shop. One day a man came in with something unusual—a solid gold ornament of some sort shaped like a dragon's claw. Lucan liked the look of the ornament and paid the man for it, and for reasons unknown business took off in the following days. Investors were almost lining up at the Riverwood Trader's door, and it didn't take long for the shop to grow into what it was today.

"Then about a week ago a man from out of town came in for supplies. He saw the claw on the counter and his eyes lit up like a child's. He asked me about where I got it, who I got it from, that sort of thing. He'd look at me for a few seconds whenever he talked, but his eyes never stayed off the claw for long. After a little while he made his purchase and walked out the door. I didn't give it a second thought until I woke up the next morning and saw the claw was missing. I searched the whole place twice before it dawned on me that the man must have broken in here and stolen it."

Lucan sighed. "At any rate, things have quickly gone from bad to worse. Just this morning I got a letter from my best investor telling me flat-out that he's lost interest in doing business with me. Shipments are being delayed and creditors are showing up at my door out of nowhere demanding payment. It's like a bad dream … it's like all my luck was bound to that claw. Without it, I'm fucked."

Kharza blinked. "You were right. You have quite a story."

"No kidding," Lucan grumbled. "I have a business to run, so I can't go after the claw myself. Besides, there's Camilla. As capable as my sister likes to think herself, the girl has her head in the clouds. She'd be lost without me here."

"Why not hire a few mercenaries to get it back for you?" Kharza asked.

"Folks like that don't come through Riverwood very often, and it would take weeks to get the word out. I don't know what to do."

Kharza leaned on the counter. "How much would you offer if someone were interested in helping you?"

Kharza saw the disbelief in Lucan's eyes.

"Are you … are you saying you'll help me?"

Kharza smiled. "Perhaps."

* * *

><p>Kharza was glad for the shoes Lucan had given him. He would have preferred boots, but shoes were definitely better than nothing. He only wished they'd been broken in a little better so the leather wouldn't rub against the tops of his toes the way it did. Still, shoes were something to be grateful for; even better was the knapsack packed with strips of dried venison, two water skins, a few ceramic vials of healing potions, and most importantly a map.<p>

As he hiked higher into the hills, Kharza's mind replayed the conversation with Gerdur and Ralof from the night before. Gerdur was more than a little worried to see him go chasing after thieves in the hills outside town, which was understandable, but Kharza desperately needed money. Even if Lucan didn't pay him as much as he wanted, any amount of coin in his pocket meant Kharza was one step closer to being reunited with his son. Ralof had assured Gerdur that if anyone he'd ever met could handle himself, it was Kharza. The kind words hadn't stopped the Khajiit feeling guilty when he saw the look in Gerdur's eyes, though.

Kharza's mind suddenly snapped back to reality as he rounded a bend in the trail. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the giant white mass of filthy, matted hair. The beast had its impossibly wide back turned to him, but he could definitely make out long, muscular arms as the creature ripped the leg right off a dead deer with little effort ...

_This is not good, _Kharza thought.

The beast paused. It raised its head, and Kharza could hear it sniffing the air.

_Not good at all._

Whatever the thing was, it stood up and turned around. It had vicious looking teeth, and all three wicked eyes were trained on the Khajiit.

Kharza decided he did not like this creature.

The beast snarled and pounded the ground with its massive fists. Kharza drew his axe and bared his teeth. His eyes scanned the creature for any vulnerability.

It was when the beast charged that he noticed it was male.

_I've got you now, you filthy bastard._

The monster's swing was fast, but Kharza was faster. He dropped to his back and the beast's looping hand went sailing overhead. Kharza kicked landed a hard heel right to the creature's balls. The creature doubled over with a howl of pain, but it did not go down … so Kharza kicked it again. He rolled off to the side as the beast fell to its knees. It was almost comical to see a monster like this holding its balls in agony as any man would. Kharza seized his opportunity and brought his axe down on the back of the creature's neck. It had a tough hide, but three solid blows later it lay dead in the dirt.

Kharza closed his eyes and took a deep breath. _In through your nose, out through your nose_. He unslung his knapsack and rummaged around through its contents. He sighed with relief; how nothing had broken he did not know. He simply glanced up at the sky and thanked Rajhin for his luck before swinging his pack back onto his shoulders and pressing on.

Thankfully there weren't any more awful creatures along the way. Cairns dotted the hillside and led up to a wide set of stone steps. Climbing them was tedious.

_Stop complaining, _Kharza told himself. _Better stairs than a rock face._

The tomb was looked quite impressive. Kharza couldn't help but look up at the giant stone buttresses reaching toward the heavens. He wondered how in the world anyone managed to bring such huge blocks of stone so far up the hill.

A deep, gruff voice broke Kharza's distraction.

"Hey!"

Kharza looked over his shoulder. It was an Orc—tall, wide and ugly. _Then again, most of them are, _Kharza said to himself, suppressing a snicker. He made a mental note of the warhammer the brute carried on his back. Apparently whoever stole the claw had friends.

The Orc approached. "What's a milk drinker like you doing up here?"

"My apologies," Kharza replied, "I could not catch that through those ugly, great tusks in your face. Perhaps I could remove them for you and you can try again?"

The Orc snarled. "I'm gonna fuck your corpse, cat!"

Kharza's axe was out before the Orc could bring his hammer his hammer around. The iron blade hacked right through the big man's wrist; both the Orc's hand and his big hammer fell to the ground in a flash of metal and blood. The Orc cried out, clutching his wounded arm. It was all he managed to do before Kharza's axe split his skull.

Kharza bounced his weapon in his hand and smiled. "I am becoming quite fond of you," he said as he knelt and wiped the blade on the dead Orc. A quick search of the body earned Kharza a weighty coin purse and a dagger. Kharza unsheathed the blade and looked it over—a solid example of Orcish craftsmanship. This dead Orc must have stolen it because there was no way in Oblivion the idiot had forged it himself.

Kharza realized he was wasting time pondering about daggers. All that mattered to him was that he had a strong, sharp blade to tuck into his belt.

_I would have made a better one, of course, _Kharza thought to himself with a grin.

A quick scan of the front of the building left only a pair of giant iron doors as the only visible entrance. Luckily one of them had been left ajar, which would save Kharza some time and allow him to avoid alerting anyone on the inside to his presence. He slipped through and stayed low to the ground, cloaked in shadow. Now he was glad he wasn't wearing boots; shoes made less noise.

Two women were up ahead, sitting on a fallen pillar beside a small fire. One had a bow at her side and a quiver of arrows on her back. Kharza was glad that they hadn't heard the commotion outside. Brief though it was, the Orc's cry of pain was fairly loud. Something about the atmosphere in this place seemed to hush the sounds of the outside world; it made Kharza slightly uncomfortable to think about it as he crept closer to the women ahead.

"I don't like this," one of the women said. "Arvel's been gone too long this time."

"It takes a while to get rid of the traps in these places, Fredda," the other replied. "Arvel knows what he's doing."

"I don't know. I feel like we should go after him."

"Relax. You sound like an old hen. Besides, this place gives me the creeps. Let the Dunmer take care of the traps and the draugr. Once he lets us know the way is clear, we'll simply cut his throat and go get our treasure."

_No honor among bandits, _Kharza said to himself. Then he pounced.

The one with the bow was the first to die. Kharza didn't want her running to cover and putting an arrow in his face while he wasted time with the other one. As it turned out, the other woman was quite skilled with her blade. She was quick and agile, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, Kharza was on the back foot. The woman grew reckless, though, and overextended herself on a lunge. Kharza parried with his axe, caught the woman's wrist with his free arm and twisted into her elbow, snapping the joint completely. The woman had all of half a second to shriek before Kharza slammed the flat of his axe blade into her face, knocking her to the ground. The Khajiit followed the woman down and hacked through her neck in one fluid motion. Blood splattered across his face and into his eyes, and he cursed as he rubbed and blinked it away. When he could see clearly again, he ventured forth into the tomb.

Torches lit the chambers ahead, no doubt set by the Arvel fellow the women had mentioned before. The place felt eerie; Kharza knew virtually nothing of magic, but he could sense a dark energy filling the old crypt. It was enough to make his fur stand on end.

Out of nowhere, a skeever came running forward with teeth bared and ill intent in its eyes. It startled Kharza, but it was nothing a good, solid kick couldn't fix. The giant rat's back snapped like a twig when the creature hit the wall.

Skeevers made Kharza angry. _Lorkhaj, if you are listening then know that I could very well do without more of those._

The place reeked of death. Old, musty, dusty death. The smell was strong enough that a Man would have trouble breathing through his nose, much less a Khajiit. Kharza did his best to settle his churning stomach, but death was all around. The walls were riddled with holes and shelves holding dead bodies. It bothered Kharza very much that the bodies hadn't turned to dust in this very ancient crypt. The corpses still had skin on their bones, withered and leathery as it was.

Kharza froze when he saw the armored body lying in the middle of the floor with a sword barely out of its reach. If it bothered him that the dead still had their skin, then it frightened him that this one seemed to be reaching for its weapon. He remembered the stories his uncles told him about necromancers raising armies of skeletons to fight for them, and he was now very afraid of what lay ahead in the ancient Nord tomb.

_Swallow your fear, little cub._ He would have to do his best.

There weren't as many torches this far in; now most of the light came from strange glowing rocks resting inside braziers along the floor. They radiated heat, and Kharza figured it best not to try to pick one up to light his way. He would just have to make do.

It wasn't long before he found Arvel. The Dark Elf lay still as a statue, limbs contorted and eyes wide open, in front of a gaping hole in the floor. Upon closer inspection, Kharza saw that it was a giant trapdoor—with the hulking body of a massive frostbite spider lying dead at the bottom of the hole. The sight made him wince and shudder. Just how big did these things _get_?

Kharza put two fingers to the Dunmer's neck. There was no pulse, and the flesh was freezing cold. It made sense to him now why frostbite spiders were named so. He would need to keep his eyes open to avoid a bite should there be any more of them, for he did not know if his meager supply of healing potions would be able to combat a venom that freezes the blood.

Arvel had a satchel close to his hip. Kharza rifled through it without much thought—it wasn't like the elf could object—and found the claw, along with a small, leather-bound journal. He unslung his knapsack and put the claw inside, ready to make his way back to the entrance, but for some reason he felt compelled to stay. Perhaps it was the talk of treasure he overheard earlier; after all, he didn't know how much he would be paid for his services, and there were still many things he needed. He would at least read through the journal to see if there was any information pertaining to the crypt.

Kharza flipped through pages of drawings and entries concerning the claw until a short verse caught his eye:

_In ancient tombs of dragons' thralls_

_Where cursed dead still roam the halls_

_The legends etched into the walls_

_Will lead to wealth untold._

Kharza wasn't keen on the idea of having to battle through any number of walking dead, but there wasn't a Khajiit he knew—himself included—who would willingly pass up an opportunity like "wealth untold." He flipped through the last remaining pages of the journal to see if there was any other mention of the claw; his patience was rewarded.

_24__th__ of Midyear_

_I think I know how the claw works. One of the books I read on the subject of old Nord crypts mentioned that inside each tomb is a long chamber called the Hall of Stories, and that at the end of each of these halls is a door that can only be opened "by the touch of a dragon." It makes sense that the claw would provide access to whatever lies beyond the door. With regard to the markings on the claw, the book didn't say anything directly—merely that "the answer lies in the palm of your hand."_

_Words cannot describe my excitement. I'm so very close now._

Kharza hadn't a clue what the entry meant. Of course the answer would be in the palm of his hand—a key opens a door. Something in the back of his mind told him not to be too hasty in his assessment of the situation; things down here in the crypt would most likely not be so simple, especially if a great treasure was involved. Kharza proceeded cautiously, keeping in mind that if Arvel lay dead and cold that there would most likely be enemies lurking ahead.

His suspicions proved correct. As he crept forward, he could hear heavy, clumsy footsteps and what sounded vaguely like raspy breathing. Breathing was the wrong word to describe it, though; it was more akin to gurgling, almost like the noises a man made after having his throat cut if his throat were a thousand years dry.

Kharza flattened himself against a pillar and snuck a peek at the corpse warrior. It walked awkwardly on desiccated legs, holding a wicked-looking greatsword in both hands. What struck Kharza the most were the demon's eyes—whatever living tissue had previously inhabited the sockets had long since rotted away, only to be replaced with what appeared to be orbs of evil pale blue light.

Kharza decided he did not like the undead.

There were more braziers along the walls. Kharza had an idea, but he'd need to take the demon by surprise.

The creature finally turned away, and Kharza sprang into action. He put a mighty kick in the middle of the demon's back, sending it hurtling toward the wall and right into one of the large ceremonial braziers. The creature was set alight almost instantly; its orb-eyes went dark in a matter of moments as the flames consumed in in its entirety.

Kharza had hoped his plan would work, but he hadn't expected it to work so well. He was surprised by how far his strike was able to throw the creature, even with its armor. He remembered his father saying something about how one's body contains a lot of water, and he figured the corpse beast was so light because all its water had dried up over the centuries.

This was all very good. Now Kharza knew how to kill the dead. He just needed to be mindful of his surroundings so as not to fall victim to any traps and join the ranks of these vile beasts.

It was good that Kharza remembered the traps. Pressure plates awaited him around almost every corner, and the walls were decked with all manner of spikes and blades. Kharza thanked Azurah for granting his people unmatched poise.

Kharza saw a large portcullis across the floor. It looked to be a straight shot with only a few pressure plates in sight. Many braziers lit the room, so there was plenty of fire around should Kharza find himself in need of it. He began to walk toward the gate.

The sound of heavy stone slabs hitting the floor cause Kharza's heart to leap into his throat. Eight very angry-looking blue orbs trained on Kharza. He bolted for the nearest brazier and kicked it off its support, sending its glowing contents skittering across the floor. Two of the undead walked right onto the stones; both of them burst into flames, and now there were only two demons left.

One of the beasts beat its fist against its breast and growled, pointing its sword at Kharza.

"_Aav dilon!"_

Kharza's gaze snapped to his right; a corpse walker wearing only rags was closing fast. Kharza swung his shin like a hammer and struck the beast it its thigh, snapping the bone inside. Kharza grabbed the creature by what was once its throat and threw it into the fire to join the remains of its comrades.

The last creature was different. It was stronger than the others; Kharza could see it. He could also see the ice forming in the demon's palm as it lifted its hand …

Kharza pivoted just in time to avoid being impaled on an icy spear tearing through the air. Now he was worried again, for he had little experience fighting against magic and knew no spells himself. He went with his gut, drawing his Orcish dagger and hurling it at the demon's head. Kharza was rewarded with a dusty _thunk_ as the blade snapped the creature's head back; he was much better at throwing knives and daggers than he was at throwing axes. He'd been confident he would hit his mark.

What Kharza did not expect was for the corpse mage to bring his head level again. The evil blue orbs still glowed in their sockets.

_This is not good_, Kharza thought as the beast raised its hand toward him again.

Kharza ducked, and another shard of ice went whizzing by over his ears into the wall behind him. He stood to face his enemy, and the beast stared straight through him with its soulless orb eyes as it spoke.

"_ZUN!"_

It was like a whisper, but it filled the entire chamber. Pins and needles shot through Kharza's forearm, and his axe clattered to the floor. He gripped his wrist in pain; his hand was numb and useless.

The pain made Kharza angry. He wanted to rip the stale flesh from the demon's skull. When the beast raised its hand again, though, sense prevailed.

Kharza scrambled from sarcophagus to pillar and back to sarcophagus, desperate for cover from the vengeful spears of ice the corpse mage fired at him. Then he heard something strange—a _click _and the sound of metal scraping against metal. There were no growls after that. Kharza took a quick glance and saw a withered leg resting on top of a pressure plate; there were no other signs of the corpse mage or the dagger stuck in its head. Kharza didn't question it, just thanked the gods profusely and returned to the task at hand. His arm was still in pain, so he unslung his knapsack once again and pulled out a healing potion. He uncorked it with his teeth and drained it in one gulp, suppressing a gag and swallowing hard. The feeling slowly crept back into his fingertips; he walked to the portcullis, pulled the release and entered what he guessed to be the Hall of Stories.

The artwork was incredible. Many paces of stone wall stretched in front of him, covered in the most detailed reliefs he'd seen in his life. Dragons dominated the carvings, towering above all the other figures. There were also men, swords and axes in their hands and great horned helmets upon their heads. Kharza took a moment to appreciate the work that must have gone into all of it, eyeing the walls with wonder as he made his way to the end of the chamber.

The door consisted of three stone rings surrounding a circle with three holes in it. It was a puzzle of some sort. Kharza pulled out the golden claw and pondered for a moment.

_The answer lies in the palm of your hand_.

There were markings on the claw; a bear, a moth and an owl. The rings on the door had the same markings on them, but not in the same order. Kharza rearranged the rings, stuck the claw in the middle circle and turned it. He closed his eyes and held his breath and prayed to Alkosh that he would not be killed by a door.

The rings began to spin, and Kharza could hear some kind of locking device releasing. He breathed a sigh of relief and laughed to himself as the door sank into the floor. He put the claw back in his knapsack and entered passed through the giant doorway into a cave.

Sunlight poured in through a hole in the ceiling, illuminating a large wall in the back. Something about the wall captivated Kharza. There was something in the air between him and the wall, some sort of … connection. As he drew closer to it, Kharza could see some sort of writing etched into the stone as if by claws. He tucked his axe into his belt and ran his fingertips over the carvings. He couldn't quite read them, but there was something oddly familiar about the script.

His fingers came to a halt.

He knew this word. He didn't understand how he knew it, he just knew it.

_Force._

Something stirred in Kharza's soul.

A sound like a small explosion snapped him back to reality. Another corpse warrior was slowly climbing out of his resting place.

This time, Kharza didn't hesitate. He hacked away at the beast's head until there was nothing left of it. The demon's body slithered back into its stone coffin; Kharza stood above it, his chest heaving as he struggled to calm his racing heart.

Kharza hissed at the remains of the corpse warrior. He _really _did not care for the undead.

Something caught his eye—a small stone tablet sticking out of the corpse warrior's breastplate. It seemed to be a map of some sort, and on the back was more of the same writing Kharza just examined on the wall. Something told Kharza he ought to hold onto it.

Kharza noticed a large iron chest behind the wall. Upon opening it, his eyes lit up. Inside was a vast array of sparkling gemstones and gold and silver jewelry. In the middle of the heap was a dagger; ivory scabbard, ivory handle and the pommel was … moonstone.

When Kharza pulled the dagger from its sheath, his heart skipped a beat.

It was the most beautiful weapon Kharza had ever seen. A blade of shimmering green malachite, inlaid with gold. Glass was by far Kharza's favorite element to work with; others favored ebony when they could get their hands on it, claiming it was far superior, but Kharza knew better. He knew that glass forged with time and love could handle anything the Gods threw at it, and this particular blade looked like it could fell a dragon all on its own.

Kharza tested the blade with his thumb and winced as a jolt of electricity surged through his arm from fingertips to shoulder.

Not only was it razor sharp, it was also enchanted with lightning magic.

"I think I may be in love,"Kharza grinned, licking the blood from his thumb.

* * *

><p>It was well past midnight when Kharza finally made it back to the farmhouse, but how late it actually was, he did not know. He was surprised to see a flickering light through the curtain on the other side of the window; he didn't expect anybody to be awake when he returned. He crept to the door and rapped lightly on the wood with his knuckles. Not two seconds later the door flew open to reveal a very relieved-looking Gerdur. She nearly tackled Kharza in a fierce hug.<p>

"Thank the Gods you're back," she said. "You had me worried sick, Khajiit!"

Ralof appeared in the doorway behind his sister.

"You look like you could use a drink, friend," the blond man smiled. "You can tell us what happened over a bottle or two of mead."

"Maybe three," Kharza replied as he entered the house.

Kharza told them about everything that had happened. The monster on the trail, the bandits, the undead soldiers—draugr, Gerdur called them—and of course the wall. His story had them stunned—even more so when he opened his knapsack and showed them all the treasure he had obtained. It truly was a glorious return.

"I still can't believe you kicked a troll in the balls," Ralof said. "I'll have to remember that the next time I come across one of the ugly fuckers!"

Kharza laughed. It was a good night to be alive.


	5. The Word

_Really sorry it took so long to get this uploaded. I'm working on another story with the wonderful massivelyattacked and it's proving way too much fun to write. :D It's called 'The Passion of Retribution'. Check it out if you're interested!_

_I promise I'll update this story more regularly._ _I hope you're enjoying it so far._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: The Word<strong>

Twelve hundred septims. One _thousand,_ two hundred septims. All for returning what the man essentially used as a glorified paperweight.

For twelve hundred septims, Kharza would have done it all twice.

But payment for retrieving the claw wasn't even the best part. When Kharza showed Lucan the treasure he had brought back, the Imperial was nigh overwhelmed; two handfuls of gems and jewelry had earned Kharza a stake in Lucan's business, and for the first time since losing the shop in Cheydinhal, Kharza now had prospects. Things were looking up, and after dumping a pile of silver and rubies on Gerdur's table (an act which had given the woman a look suggesting she was about half a step from fainting in shock) he still had two thirds of his original haul with which to do whatever he damned well pleased.

Twelve hundred septims had gotten Kharza a lot: a brand new set of decently-crafted scaled armor, a heaping helping of healing potions, a traveling cloak (which Kharza kept rolled up and tied to the top of his pack, for he had little use for it on a summer's day) and a shiny new steel axe. He could have bought a sword—he'd been using swords all his life—but something about wielding an axe made Kharza feel powerful.

Kharza smiled as he walked the road. It felt good to have to have solid boots on his feet again.

_Take pleasure in your victories, little cub. Life is full of hardship, and when the gods grant you boons you should meet them with praise on your lips and a song in your heart._

Praise to the Divines, indeed.

The landscape was spectacular. Rolling hills gave way into plains that stretched all the way to the distant mountains, impossibly majestic peaks that soared into the clouds. Kharza could see the city of Whiterun, and it was truly something to behold. The whole city covered the giant hill on which it was situated, its regal walls surrounded by scattered outlying structures which were in turn surrounded by rich farmland. As Kharza passed by fields thick with crops, he could almost feel the city's energy filling the late morning air.

A faint grunting sound made Kharza's ears twitch. He focused his gaze on the source of the sound.

It was some sort of creature—very tall, with mottled, obscenely pale skin and enormous feet.

Giant. It had to be.

As Kharza dashed ahead, three figures came into focus—two women, one red of hair and one wearing a helmet, and man; all three were locked in combat with the giant. Kharza drew his axe.

The giant backhanded the black-haired woman, knocking her to the ground. The brute raised its mighty foot as if the crush the woman beneath his heel, but before it could do so, the man cut through the back of the beast's thigh with a mighty swing of his greatsword. The giant roared in pain and fell into the dirt. Upon watching the red-haired women plunge her sword into the giant's chest, Kharza slowed to a jog.

The red-haired woman wiped her blade on the giant's lifeless body, and the man helped the helmeted woman to her feet. The red-haired woman sheathed her sword and looked in Kharza's direction. He noticed the streaks of dark green war paint smeared across her face.

"Well, that problem's been sorted," she said. "No thanks to you."

Kharza dropped his axe back into place on his belt and shrugged. "The creature lies dead in the dirt. Is this a problem?"

"You might've helped," the helmeted woman spat.

"And you might have kept your footing. Things do not always play out as one feels they should."

"You've got quite a mouth on you, cat," the red-haired woman snarled. "Maybe a broken jaw would teach you some manners?"

Kharza flexed his fingers and brushed the backs of his claws against his cuirass. "Much like losing an ear might teach you not to overstep your bounds."

The woman snarled and took a step forward, but was halted by the man's hand suddenly grabbing her shoulder. "Enough, Aela. We did what we came to do. Let's just go around the farm to make sure nobody was hurt and get outta here, huh?"

Kharza scratched the itch in his scarred cheek. "That would be best, I think."

The man glared at Kharza. "Don't push your luck, snow-back."

The red-haired woman stood her ground, glowering at Kharza before succumbing to her comrade's request. When the warriors turned their backs to Kharza and headed off into the field, the Khajiit noticed a peculiar smell on the breeze. It was _their _smell. Something about their scent reminded Kharza of a growling guard dog frothing at the mouth. His silvery eyes narrowed; the smell made him angry. Still, he knew it was silly to confront them after they'd walked away; his father had taught him better than to go picking a fight when a fight wasn't necessary. Instead, he returned to the road and made for the city.

A drawbridge stretched across a wide gap at the break in the wall. A sentry stood on either side of the entrance, each holding a vicious-looking battleaxe; ebony make, from what Kharza could see. The Khajiit proceeded with caution. Gate guards were the same everywhere, for the most part—highly trained and not apprehensive in the least about using deadly force. Such thoughts didn't mean much to Kharza until he was inches away from the drawbridge, when one of the guards held out his hand.

"Hold there!" there guard called. "What business do you have here, Khajiit? The caravan isn't due to arrive for another two days at least."

So a caravan stopped in Whiterun. Kharza felt a hint of excitement in his belly; the traders would no doubt know where he could find his family.

"No, sir, I am not with the caravan," Kharza replied politely.

"Best be on your way, then," the guard said coldly. "Khajiit aren't allowed inside the city."

Kharza remembered hearing talk in Cyrodiil of such rules being enforced in some of Skyrim's holds. Khajiit had bad reputations in the north, and for good reason—many led lives of banditry, thievery and drug dealing. Still, the guard's words stung a little bit; Kharza was no such person.

"Please, sir," Kharza said, "I come at the request of Gerdur, the woman who runs the mill in Riverwood. The town is in danger."

The guard shook his head. "I'm sorry, traveler. I can't just take the word of a stranger who shows up at our gates unannounced. You do not have permission to enter the city."

"What if I were to tell you that Riverwood stands vulnerable to a dragon attack?"

The guard's expression changed noticeably. His brow furrowed. "You know about the dragon? We received reports, but orders were to keep it quiet. Follow me to Dragonsreach, Khajiit—the Jarl should hear what you have to say."

Kharza couldn't help but drink in everything around him as he followed the guard through the streets of Whiterun. The place was thriving with activity, and it seemed that no matter where Kharza looked there was some kind of intricate piece of stonework. Delicious smells washed over him from all sides as he passed through the market—fresh meat and produce, fragrant herbs and spices and sweet pastries all had his mouth watering. Merchants and vendors of all kinds called out to passersby, encouraging shoppers to view their goods.

Though Kharza carried grave news, his heart smiled. It brought him great joy to be back in the city.

A large circle with a great dead tree at its center gave way to the path to the palace. Dragonsreach was one of the most impressive structures Kharza had seen in his lifetime. Even from outside the walls of its grounds, the building was enormous, and Kharza felt humbled as he climbed the stairs to the giant walkway outside the gate's majestic doors. He felt the same sense of awe that he did when he arrived at Bleak Falls Barrow; he appreciated without question the sheer scale and attention to detail present here. Nord architects were true masters of their craft.

The sentry signaled for the palace guards to open the doors and led Kharza into the great hall. Rich green tapestries emblazoned with golden horse heads hung from the walls. Grand banquet tables and elaborate carpets spanned the length of the hall to the steps in front of the throne. The hall was empty for the most part, save for a few servants sweeping the floor and several people gathered around the man perched upon the throne.

One such figure, an armor-clad Dark Elf woman with a gaunt face and glowing red eyes, fixed her gaze upon Kharza and the sentry he was following. The Dunmer approached, her hand dangerously close to the hilt of her sword.

"What is the meaning of this?" she asked in an ill-tempered tone. "What business does a cat have approaching the Jarl of Whiterun?"

"Begging your pardon, my liege," the sentry said with a slight bow of his head, "but this Khajiit claims to have news regarding dragons."

The Dunmer raised an eyebrow and turned her focus to Kharza. "Explain yourself, Khajiit."

Kharza did his best to mask the displeasure he felt in being called a cat by the haughty gray-skin. He did not care much for Dark Elves; the Dunmer had enslaved his people for centuries, and many of them still clung to it as a right. Kharza had no love in his heart for such people.

"My name is Kharza," he said. "I was in Helgen when the dragon attacked."

The elf's face remained stern, but Kharza saw a hint of worry behind her red eyes.

"Well," she said, "that would explain why you were allowed into the city. Wait here while I speak with the Jarl. Sentry, you may return to your post."

The soldier saluted. "Yes, my liege."

A few minutes passed before the Dunmer brought Kharza to the head of the great hall. Jarl Balgruuf had a typical physical Nord appearance—tall, even from his seated position; blond hair and bearded face; and broad shoulders atop strong arms. That was where the similarities ended, as far as Kharza was concerned. The Jarl wore thick, lavish white fur on his back and three rings on each hand, and his jeweled crown didn't look like it was more than two years old. Kharza felt the man was trying far too hard to separate himself from the commoners.

The Jarl's eyes turned upward. "So," he said in accented baritone, "Irileth tells me you were in Helgen when the dragon attacked."

"Yes, Jarl Balgruuf," the Khajiit said with a slight bow.

"What were you doing in Helgen, of all places?"

"I was due to be executed," Kharza said unashamedly. "My neck was on the chopping block when the dragon descended upon us."

The Jarl's finger stopped moving.

"And for what reason were you sentenced to die?" Balgruuf asked with furrowed brow.

"I crossed the border near Darkwater Crossing."

Jarl Balgruuf looked slightly annoyed.

"The Empire doesn't commit a man to death for crossing a border."

Kharza shrugged. "In my case, Jarl Balgruuf, they did. One moment I was being knocked to the ground by a horse, and the next moment I awoke in the back of a wagon with a splitting headache and my hands bound."

The Jarl's expression turned from one of annoyance to one of apathy. "Whatever the case, we've already received the Legion's reports. What brings you here today?"

"Gerdur, the woman who owns the lumber mill in Riverwood. She fears the dragon may attack her town next. I am here at her request to call for your aid on the town's behalf."

The Jarl nodded and turned to the Dunmer. "Irileth, make preparations for a detachment to be sent to Riverwood."

"Excuse me, my Lord," said a balding man with a Cyrodillic look about him standing to the Jarl's right. "Such an action is inadvisable. The Jarl of Falkreath will likely believe us to be siding with Ulfric and preparing to attack."

The Jarl shook his head.

"Siddgeir can believe whatever he wants. I'll not leave Riverwood defenseless in the face of a dragon attack."

The Imperial looked nervous. "But, my Lord—"

"Enough, Proventus. I will _not _leave the people of my hold to fend for themselves. I'll hear no more of it. Are we clear?"

The Imperial cleared his throat. "Yes, my Lord."

"All right, then. Irileth will make the proper arrangements. Now," Balgruuf said, switching his gaze to Kharza once again, "Farengar, my court wizard, has told me of a project he's undertaken to better understand … well, to be honest, I don't know what he's trying to understand. The point is, he's researching the dragons and you're the only one among us here today who has seen one up close. I want you to speak to him. Look for the man in robes; he's impossible to miss."

Saying nothing further, Kharza bowed, took a step back and turned on his heel. He walked away feeling slightly insulted. He wasn't even the Jarl's subject, much less his servant. Besides, what help would a mage's pet project be in an actual fight against a dragon? A Jarl in a position such as Balgruuf's should be mobilizing his troops, not pandering to the whims of a fucking wizard.

_Just do as the man says, _Kharza told himself. He couldn't hold back a sigh.

Farengar was easy enough to find—he was the only one wearing robes. He was sitting at a desk cluttered with books and parchments in a large, open room.

The mage looked up at Kharza as he approached.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Kharza," the Khajiit replied. "The Jarl thinks I may be of some use to you and your research into the dragons."

"And why would he think that?"

"I was at Helgen during the attack."

The mage's eyes widened. "You were? Did you get a good look at it? What was it doing?"

Kharza raised an eyebrow. "It was destroying the town."

"Right, of course," said Farengar. "So you got to see it up close?"

Gods, was this man a simpleton? How did such an idiot become a court wizard?

"Closer than most."

"And lived to tell the tale. You must be fairly durable, yes? Would you say you're a durable individual?"

_Sheggorath must have chosen me for his cosmic joke, _Kharza said inside his head. He sighed again—he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. "Is there a way in which I may assist or am I free to leave?"

The mage closed his book. "Yes, as a matter of fact. You see, in my readings I have discovered the location of a certain artifact that may prove useful in developing a deeper understanding of the dragons and their return. It's a stone tablet, said to be housed in the crypt of Bleak Falls Barrow. I could use a man of your … particular talents to fetch it for me so that I might study it."

Kharza did not approve of the mage's attitude or how easily the man meant to send him into a dangerous ruin without even warning him of the dangers. Still, he saw no sense in wasting time. Without saying a word, he pulled the strange stone tablet from his knapsack and extended it to the wizard.

"My Gods. The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow! You already have it!" Farengar babbled excitedly. He took the tablet from the Khajiit's hand and stood there in silence for a moment, content to simply stare at it and run his fingers over all its strange markings.

"This must have been very difficult to obtain."

Kharza shook his head. "It was not a walk on the beach at sunset. Now, will that be all or am I free to go?"

"No," said Farengar. "You deserve to be compensated for your efforts. I noticed many pieces of jewelry in your pack; may I have a ring or a necklace?"

Kharza stared blankly. "What does this have to do with—"

Farengar cut him off. "Just wait and see."

_If this is not something good, I am going to kick this snob in his face, _Kharza thought. He set his knapsack down on top of Farengar's books—perhaps a bit harder than he needed to—and rummaged through its contents until he found a simple jade pendant on a silver chain. As soon as he handed the item to Farengar, the wizard spun around and briskly walked to a table on the wall. Kharza could hear him muttering something; as the Khajiit paced to the wizard's side, he realized the man was chanting.

Lines began to form on the table's smooth surface; they took the form of a pentacle as they glowed progressively brighter with the wizard's chanting. Kharza had seen the enchanting process a few times before, but not like this. The mage was apparently very skillful.

Farengar placed the necklace in the middle of the pentacle and planted his hands on either side. Kharza saw him close his eyes; thin, shimmering wisps of energy swirled around the necklace, enveloping it in magic. After a minute or so, Farengar lifted his hands from the table; the pentacle faded back into its dark wooden platform.

The mage was beaming when he handed Kharza the necklace.

"I enchanted this with elemental magic. When you wear it, it will offer you protection from extreme temperatures. Now, be advised—it is unwise to go charging through a forest fire or diving into freezing waters for long periods of time, for the shield this necklace provides will only last for so long before it falls and must be allotted several minutes to recharge. In any case, it should help you should you the next time you find yourself face to face with a dragon."

Kharza was stunned. He stared blankly at the wizard as the man took his wrist and warmly placed the necklace in his palm.

"I—I thank you, Farengar. Such a gift is …"

The wizard held up his finger. "You have done me a great service by bringing me the Dragonstone. Ordinarily my enchanting services are reserved for the Jarl and a select few among his court, but you have set yourself apart from the common rabble of this city. My door is open to you, should you require my services. Now, about the dragon itself—I would very much like to know more, but the Dragonstone calls for my present attention. Return to Dragonsreach just after sunset for supper so that we might discuss the matter further. I'll inform the guards that you're to be allowed in."

Kharza nodded. "I will return after sunset. Thank you again, Farengar."

The mage bowed. Kharza picked up his knapsack and looped it back over his shoulders, leaving the wizard to his research and heading back toward the throne. As he fixed the enchanted pendant around his neck, he felt that maybe he'd judged the wizard too quickly; the man surely seemed arrogant, but the encounter left Kharza feeling the man was more eccentric than anything else, and he was not lacking in gratitude.

"So, were you able to help Farengar?" Jarl Balgruuf asked the approaching Khajiit.

Kharza bowed his head. "Yes, my lord. I happened to have what he needed to further his research."

"Ah," said Balgruuf through a smile, "a bit of good fortune in these days of terrible news. You have my thanks … Kharza, was it?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Well, Kharza, we might have need of you yet. Please, stay in Whiterun for the next few days; the office of the Jarl will cover your room and board."

"My Jarl," Irileth cut in. "Is it wise to allow this … this Khajiit to stay within our walls? If the caravaneers catch wind of it, they may cause a fuss over not being allowed into the city."

Balgruuf gave the Dunmer a weary look. "I think, Irileth, that policy allows for an exception in this case. The man came to us of his own accord to help the people of our hold, and for that we owe him our gratitude."

Irileth grumbled.

* * *

><p>Kharza was sent on his way with what the steward Proventus said was enough to coin to cover a week's expenses. Kharza was to stay at an inn called the Bannered Mare. It made sense that a Khajiiti traveler wasn't granted accommodation in one of the city's finer establishments, which was fine by Kharza, but nobody in the palace had given him the inn's location. All they had told him was that the Bannered Mare was "in the Plains District" and promptly ushered him out of Dragonsreach without an escort. Things went smoothly, though—the people of Whiterun, while confused as to how a Khajiit had come into their midst, were friendly enough and pointed him in the right direction.<p>

The inn was surprisingly tidy. Even the wenches, few in number due to the hour, looked a step above the questionable women Kharza was used to seeing in the taverns he visited. The Khajiit was happy he'd not been sent to hole himself up in some filthy skeever den while the Jarl's court took their time deciding the best use for him. Some of the girls were looking at him with wide eyes and giggling behind their hands as they spoke to one another. Kharza shook his head and smiled as he approached the bar.

"Welcome to the Bannered Mare, traveler," said the woman behind the counter. "My name is Hulda. What can I do for you today?"

Kharza liked this woman. She seemed not to care that he was a Khajiit; she seemed only to care that he was a patron.

"Greetings, Hulda. I would like a room, please." He took the steward's coin purse out of his pocket and laid it gently on the counter. "Proventus Avenicci in Dragonsreach said this would provide me with room and board for a week."

Hulda opened the coin purse and emptied its contents onto the counter. She grinned.

"It'll do more than that. I'll give you the best room we've got—up the stairs, first door on your left." She took a key off the wall and handed it to the Khajiit. "And you let me know whenever you need food or drink; by Shor, if we don't feed you the best venison stew you've ever tasted then it's on the house!"

Kharza returned the grin. "Thank you very much for your hospitality."

"I should be thanking _you, _mister-?"

"Kharza," said the Khajiit with a polite nod. "Simply Kharza."

"Well, simply Kharza, you just give a shout if you need anything."

Kharza caught a disapproving look from a Redguard woman sweeping the floor near the stairs.

"Looks like they're letting any old trash just float into the city nowadays," she sneered.

"Oh my, yes," Kharza replied, looking her dead in the eye with mock disbelief. "It is simply dreadful. I hear they are even giving them jobs as barmaids. The audacity!"

Kharza swore he heard Hulda snort. He left the Redguard woman to sulk as he climbed the stairs and found his room. Upon seeing a bed that would fit a frost troll and his wife, a clean washbasin and several shelves lined with all manner of books, he felt guilty for thinking earlier that the Jarl's court were shoving him under a rock. He made a mental note to thank Proventus when he returned to Dragonsreach for supper.

Set down his supplies and weapons, removed his cuirass, and flopped down on the bed with a happy cackle; it was just as comfortable as it looked. A nap was most definitely in order.

* * *

><p>Kharza barely got down the stairs before the inn door flew open. There stood Irileth, winded and bathed in sweat.<p>

"Thank Azura you're still here," she panted. "You must come with me immediately."

"If you'll excuse me," the Khajiit replied, "I am expected at Dragonsreach shortly."

"I've just run from there to collect you, you fool!" Irileth barked. "A dragon has just attacked the Western Watchtower!"

The Dunmer didn't give him time to speak. She simply spun around and started running down the street; Kharza had to sprint to catch up to her. A company of soldiers had formed just in front of the drawbridge.

"No time for idle chatter, soldiers," Irileth said. "A dragon has attacked the Western Watchtower, and we will go destroy it. If we are to die tonight, it will be with steel in our hands!"

A mighty roar erupted. The townsfolk nearby spoke to each other in hushed whispers.

Kharza took a deep breath. _The Dunmer needs to work on her speeches, _he thought as Irileth grabbed him by the arm and hauled him into the lead alongside her.

From just outside the city walls, the distant fire looked like a candle flame flickering in a draught. The closer they came, the more the scene devolved into chaos and destruction. The ramparts were utterly destroyed; the tower itself still stood, but only just. The ground surrounding the structure lay brown and burnt, thin plumes rising from the dirt and the charred corpses adorning it to meet the evening air.

Kharza felt strangely cool for standing on scorched earth so near a blaze. He was glad he hadn't left his necklace back in his room.

A pained groan escaped a pile of rubble ahead. Kharza ran over and strained with gritted teeth to roll a large block off the heap and onto the ground.

There lay a lone soldier, his legs pinned down by the wreckage. Though his helmet covered his face, Kharza could hear the man choking on blood between labored breaths.

"Dead," the soldier gasped. "All dead …"

The tower collapsed. The fire roared into the sky. The flames were like a pack of wolves, ravenously devouring the remains of a wounded elk.

When Kharza's eyes fell back upon the soldier in the rubble, the man had already gone limp.

A thunderous roar caused the air to shake. Everyone looked up, but nobody could locate the source of the sound.

"He is here," Kharza said to no one in particular.

_And he is hungry._

"Be on your guard, soldiers!" Irileth cried. "Steel yourselves!"

As though summoned by the Dunmer's words, giant wings appeared in the sky against setting sun's last rays. The dragon roared again as it grew larger in Kharza's eyes. Some of the men around him shouted challenges at the beast; others appeared too terrified to form words.

One man whispered prayers to the Gods. Kharza grabbed the man's shoulder. "The Gods help those who help themselves," he said. The man nodded and drew his sword.

"Archers! Make ready!" Irileth cried.

The dragon swooped low overhead, the wind in its wake nearly knocking Kharza to the ground. The dragon came about and landed hard, causing the earth to tremble.

"Archers, loose!"

The dragon bellowed as a barrage of arrows battered its body. Many lodged themselves in the beast's underbelly and wings.

_Weak points, _Kharza noted.

He heard the dragon draw a sharp breath.

"Take cover!" Kharza yelled. He knew what would come next; he launched himself to the side before the dragon could issue its call.

"_YOL … TOOR SHUL!"_

The wails of several unlucky soldiers were cut short by the wave of fire streaming from the dragon's mouth. Bodies turned to ash before they could even hit the ground.

The dragon spoke.

"_Hear me, mortals! Know that I am Mirmulnir. Look upon me and despair!"_

One brave soldier ran straight for the dragon with his warhammer raised high. The dragon opened its terrible jaws and snapped the man in half; blood and entrails littered the ground around the pair of newly disembodied legs.

"_Weaklings! Your flesh fuels my purpose!"_

Kharza hoisted himself up and jogged forward into the ranks. He saw some of the men tremble with fear; he could smell the stream of urine running down the leg of the soldier beside him.

"_Pitiful, pathetic mortals. I send your souls to Sovngarde to embrace the wrath of my lord!"_

Kharza was many things; "pathetic" was one thing he was not. He swore to everything he held sacred that he would see this dragon dead, even if it meant he fought with tooth and nail to his dying breath. He walked through the ranks of soldiers ahead of him with hatred burning in his eyes.

A thrash of the dragon's horned head knocked a soldier into the air, sending him flying toward the ruined watchtower. Another man charged the dragon from behind; the dragon slammed the man into the dirt with its tail, leaving behind nothing but a bloody mess.

Kharza drew his axe and hissed. The dragon paused for a moment and turned to look upon the Khajiit.

"_I know you, mortal."_

The Khajiit bared his teeth and beat his fist against his breast, growling a challenge to the great beast before him.

The dragon took a step forward, arrows pelting it from both sides. It didn't seem to care. There was something strange about it. It almost seemed like an elder brother who had broken Kharza's favorite toy, only far, far worse. Whatever it was, it infuriated the Khajiit.

A wicked streak of blue lightning tore through the air and hit the dragon square in the jaw, making it bellow in anger. Kharza saw Irilieth out of the corner of his eye, her hands raised and readying another blast of magic.

"Hit it again!" Kharza howled. He moved forward; all around him were men wielding powerful weapons, all unsure of how to attack without instantly meeting their doom. The archers were running low on ammunition, and it showed. Kharza broke into a run as Irileth fired another bolt of lightning magic, catching the dragon under the eye. The beast staggered.

_The eyes, _Kharza thought, images of Helgen racing through his mind.

He leapt at the dragon and hacked at its snout. The steel opened a gash in the creature's thick scales, but Kharza's arm was left shaking from the bone underneath. The dragon flailed its head at him; he ducked and launched another assault on the dragon's throat. The axe became lodged in the dragon's flesh and was ripped from Kharza's grasp when the dragon reared.

_You son of a bitch, _Kharza said inside his mind. All he had left was his dagger.

Seeing the dragon falter renewed the men's confidence. They rushed the beast with steel drawn, shouting and howling as they laid into it with everything they had. The dragon beat them back with its wings and tail, but Kharza could see its confusion. The beast drew breath to shout again, but lost its focus when another blue charge of electricity caught it in its throat. The beast's head was low; there was unbridled fury in its eyes.

_The eyes._

Now was Kharza's chance. He chambered his legs and launched himself into the air, grabbing firmly onto one of the beast's horns. He scrambled up the side of the dragon's neck, swinging his leg over to straddle its scales and grasping its other terrible horn. Sharp points dug into Kharza's buttocks and thighs as he squeezed; he would not let this dragon escape his grasp.

The dragon reeled in anger. _"I will feast on your bones, puny wretch!"_

The dragon bucked, but Kharza held strong. The mighty beast flapped its great wings and began to rise off the ground. In a flash of shimmering green and gold Kharza drew his glass dagger and plunged it into the dragon's eye. The beast fell to the ground; its whole body locked up and trembled violently. Kharza twisted his blade with both hands, growling with rage. Smoke poured from the dragon's nostrils and its other eye boiled in its socket. Kharza ripped his weapon from the dragon's head and the beast collapsed. Its head lolled to the side; its death rattle rumbled low and loud.

Kharza jumped to the ground. His heart pounded in his chest, and he could not still his breathing. He had just killed a dragon. He, Khajiit, had just felled a demon that struck terror into the hearts of men. He felt like nothing in the world could stand before his might.

Something odd was happening to the dragon's body. The cracks between its scales was glowing; its flesh seemed to melt away before Kharza's eyes. A thrill unlike any other coursed through his being as the beast's scales collapsed around its bones. Some sort of energy was filling his muscles, penetrating his bones. He felt a stirring in his soul that seemed to lift it into the heavens. He felt stronger. He felt like a god. He lifted his eyes toward the moons and issued forth his call.

"_FUS!"_

Force. Unrelenting Force.

He understood. He _knew_.

It came as naturally as breathing.

A voice behind him met his ears; a voice quaking with awe and wonder, almost whispering as it spoke the words:

"Dragonborn."


	6. The Mark

_Yeah, so I sure took way too long to get this written and posted. Sorry for the wait; hope you like it._

_Also-be sure to check out_ **A Passion for Retribution**, _a collaborative work written with the massively talented **massivelyattacked**.__ Unless sex and violence ain't your thing, of course.  
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_Thanks to all the readers and subscribers out there. Sorry again for failing super hard at regular updates. XD  
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* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6: The Mark<strong>

No matter how long he stared at the ceiling, sleep would not come. He saw images of the towering tongues of flame, the dying men screaming through their final breaths, the feel of the scales between his legs as he drove the dagger into the dragon's eye …

But the thought that haunted him the most was of thunder without lightning and a word that echoed across the plains.

_DOVAHKIIN._

He'd only wanted to return to the palace to deliver a bone and a few scales to Farengar. Instead, he ended up being virtually dragged before the Jarl by that bitchy gray-skin to explain the situation, and now it seemed he had some sort of mission to go to a town called Ivarstead, climb seven _thousand _steps up a mountain and talk to some old men who could help him understand his new role as this "Dragonborn" individual people kept talking about. All he wanted to do was find his family; it was all he'd come to Skyrim to do in the first place. It got him abducted, almost beheaded without trial, and almost killed twice by dragons.

Why couldn't things just be simple? Why was he suddenly being summoned to this "High Hrothgar" to speak with a group of crotchety old hermits who knew nothing of him or his struggles? Why should he even _care?_

_DOVAHKIIN._

He had to care. He had to care because of the wall in Bleak Falls Barrow. He had to care because he had taken a dragon's soul. He had to care because in his heart he knew that for dragons to appear now after being gone so long they had faded into legend could mean only terrible things for the world. He had to care because he wanted the world to survive so that his son could live.

He had to care because of the word that hours later still sent shivers down his spine.

_DOVAHKIIN._

He grabbed a pillow and mashed it over his eyes as though the darkness would quell the thunder still reverberating through the walls of his mind. The hour was late, and he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was sleep …

_The desert wind blew hot over the dunes, kicking swirls of dust and sand into the air. The sun's scorching rays made him narrow his eyes as he took in his surroundings._

_How did he end up here?_

_He heard faint footsteps in the sand behind him. He turned around to see a cloaked figure—a fellow Khajiit with piercing green eyes shining brightly from beneath his hood._

"_M'aiq bids you welcome," the man said with a bow._

_He could not help but feel a little bewildered. "What is this place? Where am I?"_

_The hooded man smiled knowingly. "Ah, this one seems lost. Where do any of us go when our eyes close and the world around us falls away?"_

"_I am dreaming, then," he said._

"_Even so," the hooded figure nodded. "It seems this one's mind is troubled, for why else would he find himself here?"_

"_Why do you think my mind is troubled?"_

"_Look around you," the hooded Khajiit said, gesturing toward the dunes with a sweep of his hand. "The land is desolate and bleak, with no escape in sight."_

"_But I will escape when I wake up."_

_M'aiq shook his head with a knowing smile. "Your surroundings will appear different in the waking world, but these troubled sands will follow you."_

_Kharza felt the warm flush of frustration rising in his cheeks. "Do you have a purpose in this place other than to drive me mad?"_

"_On the contrary, M'aiq is here to offer this one guidance."_

_He rolled his eyes. "And what a magnificent job you are doing."_

_The hooded cat grinned again. "Your anger will be your undoing, traveler. Your own father told you many times that misplaced anger clouds one's judgment, did he not?"_

"_What do you know of my father?" Kharza spat. His irritation grew with every moment the hooded cat M'aiq smiled his same damned smile. If he was trying to start a fight, he was doing very well; Kharza felt like punching him in the mouth._

"_M'aiq knows many things, and has known many people."_

_Kharza hung his head and breathed a heavy sigh, releasing his anger to turn on his heels and take a few steps in the hot sand. _Let this fool burn to a crisp in the sun, _he thought, _I have better things to do.

"_This one is planning on going somewhere?" M'aiq spoke._

"_I will surely not find the way out of here standing idly by while your tongue twists the air into sounds of nonsense and nothings. Good day, sir."_

"_You are going the wrong way."_

_He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying hard to force the anger back into his gut. He turned around and faced the mad Khajiit once more. "And which way is the right way, then? And if you flash me that stupid grin one more time, I will have your teeth to wear in my braids."_

_M'aiq grinned anyway. "The right way will not reveal itself until you are ready to see it."_

That does it, _Kharza growled inside his head. He clenched his fists and approached the hooded Khajiit with narrowed eyes and flattened ears. M'aiq's slap came faster than he could possibly have reacted._

His eyes snapped open. The light pouring in the windows was too bright for it to be morning; he figured the time to be around midday. His scarred cheek bore an itch stronger than it was used to; he thought of the slap as he reached up to scratch it. Never had his dreams been so vivid—so real.

_Was it truly a dream, _he asked himself as he sat up, _or has Sheggorath taken to chipping away at my mind while I sleep?_

Whatever it was, he at least felt rested. A bit confused, to be sure, but rested. The insides of his thighs felt bruised from the dragon's scales, but he was definitely in better shape than the dragon, itself. The thought made him smile, as did the cooking smells from downstairs wafting under his door. It was surely too late for bacon and pancakes, but the thought of a half rack of ribs and a flagon of cold cider seemed just as enticing. Maybe he'd even have a whole rack; he was certainly hungry enough.

He wished he had something to wear other than his armor. Not even a week old and it was already sullied from battle; the smell of burnt grass seemed to have worked its way into every inch of leather. Still, his options were limited for the moment. As he donned his cuirass, he made a mental note to ask Hulda about where to buy clothes.

He'd barely slipped into his boots and taken his first step toward the door when the sound of knuckles rapping heavily against the other side greeted his ears. Upon opening the door, he was met with a pair of sullen red eyes and a scowl on a gray face he'd hoped he wouldn't have to see that day.

Rested though he was, he felt a certain weariness at Irileth's unexpected and unpleasant experience.

"Housecarl," he muttered, tipping his head slightly.

"Jarl Balgruuf wishes to speak with you," she said. "You are to come with me at once."

Kharza raised an eyebrow. "I am not even granted the courtesy of a 'Good morrow' before being ordered about?"

The Dunmer narrowed her eyes. "I would advise you to mind your tone, Khajiit, lest you wish—"

"I have had enough of your bravado, _Dunmer_," he sighed. "If the Jarl wishes to see me, so be it—but not before I have had my lunch."

The elf paused for moment before she spoke again. "Fine," she snapped.

_At least the gray-skin has _some _semblance of decency, _Kharza thought as he made his way past her.

* * *

><p>"Is there something more you require of me, Jarl Balgruuf?" he asked.<p>

Balgruuf shook his head slowly as he rose to his feet. "Quite the opposite, Dragonborn. You have done our city—nay, our hold—a great service by vanquishing the dragon threat. Whiterun owes you a debt, sir."

"You are very kind, my lord," the Khajiit replied with a slight bow.

The Jarl bowed in kind. "Our city is open to you, Dragonborn. Henceforth, you shall be known as a citizen of Whiterun."

Kharza heard Irileth mutter something under her breath. No doubt the thought of a Khajiit being granted such status was driving her mad. The thought caused a fleeting smile to cross his lips.

"Of course," Balgruuf continued, "such a thing is hardly a reward befitting a dragon slayer. If there is anything you need, Dragonborn, anything at all…"

"With respect, my lord, I already have most of what I need. The only thing I am missing now is a good weapon. I buried my axe deep in the dragon's flesh, and I fear I could not find it—even after the beast melted away."

"Not to worry," the Jarl said, raising a hand reassuringly. "We have many fine weapons in our armory. What you need is Skyforge steel. Eorlund Gray-Mane's blades could cut through a mammoth's hide like parchment. In fact, why don't you go see him after you've found what you need here? I would see the Dragonborn clad in armor made from the finest steel in Tamriel."

"If it please you, my lord—I would rather you call me Kharza instead of by this new title of… 'Dragonborn.'" Even in his own voice the word sounded awkward.

The Jarl smiled. "Granted, Kharza. Now go find yourself a weapon. Proventus will escort you. Proventus!"

Chair legs scraped against the stone floor behind Kharza. He turned to see the balding Imperial approach.

"Sire?" the man said.

"Kharza is in need of a new weapon. Show him to the armory. Following that, give him some coin that he might see Eorlund to be fitted for new armor."

The Imperial bowed. "At once, sire."

Kharza followed the Imperial through the great hall into the corridors of Dragonsreach. He found Proventus' manner quite peculiar. For a man of such a prominent position in the Jarl's court, the Imperial seemed oddly anxious and had a bad habit of shuffling his feet while he walked. His head stayed down, as though even in the empty hallways of the palace he had the Jarl's eyes upon him still. It was as though he had to look at each stone in the floor to make sure he wouldn't trip over his own feet as he walked.

A broad, downward staircase led to a tall, broad gate which Proventus hurriedly unlocked. _Even the man's fingers are nervous, _Kharza said to himself. The Imperial swung open the gate and motioned for Kharza to enter; when he did, his breath caught in his chest.

The armory was massive. Weapons and armor forged for men and women of all shapes and sizes lined the walls. Kharza's footsteps slowed as he turned around and around, feasting his eyes upon the vast treasure of steel that gleamed even in the dim torchlight.

"Skyforge steel?" Proventus asked.

The Khajiit's attention whipped back to the Imperial; in his wonderment, he'd been oblivious to the man's advancement into the armory. "Pardon?"

"The Jarl offered you a weapon made of Skyforge steel, correct?"

"Oh. Yes, he did."

"Splendid. Follow me, please."

He trailed behind Proventus to the back of the giant chamber. Several racks stood before him, holding mostly swords but also a few axes and a number of helmets.

"Have a look," the Imperial invited with a sweep of his hand. "I'm sure we have something to your liking."

Kharza paced along the racks, closely inspecting each weapon as he went. The light was low, but his eyes were keen, and he could definitely see something different about the steel in front of him. He flicked his claw against the blade of a sword and brought his ear close. It didn't quite ring the way he'd expected; it almost seemed to quietly sing in the rack…

Proventus chuckled. "Skyforge steel," he said through a smile. "Before I came to Whiterun I'd never come across anything quite like it."

The Khajiit nodded. "The metal does seem to be quite different," he replied as he looked through the racks. "I wonder, though—what do you have in the way of longswords?"

Proventus' eyes rolled back in thought; he took a few seconds before he snapped his fingers as though some great idea had just washed over him. "I have just the thing."

The man shuffled off into a dark corner and returned moments later holding a long, sheathed sword in both hands. He gripped the hilt and drew the blade in one swift motion; _Apparently the man knows his way around a sword, _Kharza thought as he watched the Imperial twirl the sword through the air.

"Fifty inches. Blade, guard and pommel all Skyforge steel. Grip of bound mammoth leather. The scabbard is fire-hardened oak, lined on the inside with treated calfskin. A fine weapon, to be sure."

The man closed the gap and handed over the sword. Kharza noted first the excellent balance; the mammoth leather grip felt quite comfortable as he assumed a two-handed grip. The pommel was of a good size for bashing an opponent's face, and the cross guard had a good span.

"If I may, sir," Proventus said, "I would advise against the use of half-sword techniques in your engagements. Skyforge steel is quite sharp, as you've no doubt noticed; one slip and you'll surely end up absent fingers."

Kharza suddenly placed his left palm against the flat of the blade and swiftly swung the pommel toward the Imperial's face, stopping just as the rounded steel made contact with the skin of the man's cheek. Kharza laughed when he noticed the wide-eyed steward wasn't breathing.

"Fear not, good Proventus; Khajiit knows his way around a sharp sword. After all—blades are meant to be keen, no?"

The man breathed a shaky sigh of relief as Kharza pulled away to sheathe the blade. "Y-yes… quite."

"This is a good sword," Kharza said. "Thank you, Proventus."

* * *

><p>The Imperial had mentioned Jorrvaskr, the great mead hall of the Companions, and that the man Eorlund Gray-Mane could be found above it. What "above it" meant, Kharza didn't know, but Jorrvaskr was easily the largest building in the Wind District and didn't require much searching for to discover.<p>

On his way up yet another long, wide set of stone stairs—of which there apparently seemed to be plenty in the city—he caught a scent on the wind. It was the same as the day prior when he'd encountered the red-haired woman with a chip on her shoulder and her associates; when he looked down over the edge of the steps, however, none of them was anywhere to be seen. He shrugged it off and carried on with his ascent, but the smell still made his tail twitch with annoyance.

The sound of hammer on steel grew louder as he approached the top of the stair. Though it gave him a certain sense of longing for the life he'd been forced to leave behind, it also gave him hope. Perhaps in this new land, he could open a smithy of his own one day. He easily had the funds already, with the remaining spoils from Bleak Falls Barrow and the coin from the Riverwood Trader, but something told him his work concerning the dragons was only just beginning.

The Skyforge itself appeared to be nothing more than a massive stone pit full of glowing coals, but as Kharza came closer to it he could feel a certain… shift in the area surrounding it. The air seemed lighter, as if the forge was pulling out its essence and drawing it into itself. Such a thought seemed a wild notion, but whatever was going on, this certainly was no ordinary forge.

The man Eorlund Gray-Mane plunged the hot end of the metal in his hand into the trough by his anvil; it hissed angrily in the water before being pulled out and thrust back into the coals.

"Heard tell of a Khajiit killing a dragon out by the Western Watchtower last night," the man said gruffly without looking up. He turned the blade over in the coals; Kharza swore he saw them burning hotter on their own with no aid from a bellows, and by now was convinced that there was some sort of magic at work.

"Word travels fast in Whiterun, I see," he replied.

Gray-Mane pulled the metal from the coals and set its glowing end upon the anvil. For as old as he looked, he struck with great vigor.

He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. "You're the one they're talking about, I suppose?" he asked; still he kept his eyes solely on his work.

"Even so," Kharza nodded.

"'Even so,' he says…" the old man muttered, shaking his head. "And? Do you think I'll hand out my works for free based on hearsay? If that's what you're after, Khajiit, then you'll be sorely disappointed. I only work for coin."

Kharza transferred his new sword into his left hand and shrugged off his pack. He reached into the front pocket, pulled out the leather purse given him by Proventus and tossed it at the man's feet. The coins inside clinked together as the pouch hit the ground; Gray-Mane paused with his hammer raised, finally looking away from his task and fixing his eyes upon the little big before him.

"Khajiit does not seek handouts," Kharza said.

The man stood staring at the purse for a moment before he turned and thrust his piece of steel into the flames once more. He slowly bent down to pick up the little leather bag; Kharza's ears detected the faint popping sounds the man's joints made as he went through his motions. The old man weighed the purse in his palm as he stood up; he loosened the drawstring and opened the leather, slowly and deliberately rifling through the coins inside.

"This is quite a hefty sum," he grumbled.

Kharza nodded. "The Jarl said I should come to you to be fitted for armor."

Gray-Mane's eyes met Kharza's for the first time. He set his hammer upon his anvil and approached the Khajiit slowly, looking him up and down. He lifted his hands, trailing his fingers through the air in front of Kharza's chest and shoulders.

The man gave pause; a pensive look washed over his weathered face as he looked over his subject one last time.

"Yes," he said, "I think I might have something that should fit you nicely after a few minor adjustments."

Kharza couldn't keep his attention away from the piece of steel in the flames.

"Are you not worried that the steel will warp?" he asked.

Gray-Mane scoffed. "Fancy yourself a smith, do you? Listen, Khajiit—I've tended the Skyforge for decades, trained in its use by my father as he was by his father, all the way back to the time before the founding of this _fair _city."

Kharza raised his hands. "I meant no disrespect, sir—"

"I'll not have my methods questioned by some wandering snowback, no matter how many dragons he's felled or how much favor he's found in the Jarl's court. You stick to worrying about… whatever it is you do and let _me _worry about the rest of what's here. Do you understand?"

The Khajiit raised an eyebrow. "I came here at the behest of Jarl Balgruuf. Do not think that my compliance with his wishes means that I will tolerate insults from some old man who can barely stoop to pick up a coin purse without nearly falling to pieces. Disrespect me again and I will add a world of worries to _what's here._"

The old man stood silent at first, breathing heavily through his nose under furrowed brow. His angry expression faded away slowly; the corners of his mouth twisted into a smile, which in turn gave way to a half-grin.

"I think I'll have to forge a whole new codpiece for you, cat," he chuckled. "I don't think I've got anything in stock that's big enough for your balls."

Kharza decided he liked the old man, after all.

"First, though," Gray-Mane continued, "you'll need a better way to carry that sword. I have a baldric lying around here somewhere, I'm sure…"

* * *

><p>With the order for his armor put in and his new sword secure in its rig over his shoulder, he was free of errands for the day. He would have to practice the motion of unhooking his weapon and bringing it around to the front to draw it, but there would be time for that later.<p>

With the sun's rays softening as the day grew older, he decided to better acquaint himself with the city. As he had yet to fully appreciate the market, he figured it was the best place to start.

There were still quite a few people wandering around, but business was definitely starting to wind down for the day.

One stood out the most, though—a young Nord girl who Kharza noticed kept eyeing him as he maneuvered through the dwindling crowd. He pretended not to notice; then turned his head quickly in her direction.

She wasn't fast enough in turning away to avoid his gaze completely. Even from a distance, he could the color rise in her cheeks. He waited for her to raise her eyes again; he smiled warmly when they met his, and he motioned for her to come over.

The girl made her way to him slowly; from what he could see, it was more out of shyness than fear. He knelt as she drew nearer.

"It is a strange thing, is it not?" he said. "A walking, talking cat wearing clothes and carrying a sword?"

The girl turned away slightly, but he could hear her giggling. She hadn't stopped looking at him.

"You're a Khajiit, silly," she said. "You have pretty eyes."

He grinned and bowed his head politely. "You are too kind."

"All the grown-ups are talking about a Khajiit fighting a dragon. Are you the one they're talking about?"

"Even so," he nodded.

Her eyes widened. "Really?" she beamed. Her whole demeanor changed; she looked fit to burst with excitement. "Was it big? I bet it was _real _big, huh?"

"Oh my, yes," he replied.

A sudden unpleasantness clawed at his stomach. For the first time that day, images from the night before of panic, agony and loss of life flashed through his mind. He kept his smile for the girl's sake, but he felt his heart sink all the same. He would find time later to pray for the dead.

The girl cocked her head to the side. "You look sad."

He shook his head, chuckling softly. "Am I really so transparent?"

"Huh? What's that?"

"Nothing important."

"Oh. Okay. My name's Lilla—what's yours?"

"My name is Kharza," he smiled. "Well, my lady Lilla," he said, returning to his feet, "I have been wanting a sweetroll since I first set foot in this marketplace, and I have a feeling that you know where to find the best ones."

The girl's face lit up even brighter. "I sure do!" She pointed off to her right. "Miss Carlotta is just through there. She makes my favorite ones. Come on, I'll show you!"

She grabbed his hand and immediately began tugging at his arm with purpose. Her feet moved so fast that he thought she might take to the air; the thought lifted his spirits, causing him to grin from ear to ear.

The smell of baking cakes and pastries grew with every step; so too did the whispers of passersby. He heard them say things like "Is that him?" and "I heard he took its very soul." It made him slightly uncomfortable to have so many eyes upon him, but he kept his own eyes forward, focusing on Lilla's rapid chattering as she led him further through the streets.

Lilla's pace finally began to slow as they neared the source of the smells, a stall lined with crates holding a colorful array of fruits and vegetables. A man in a baker's hat was just setting a basket of fresh bread on the counter as Kharza and his new friend fell into line behind a man with long, blond hair and a lute at his side. The baker wandered off; the blond man was speaking in a haughty tone to the Imperial woman behind the stall.

"Come on, Carlotta," the man said. "Where's the harm in just one friendly drink?"

The woman shook her head. "This is the third time you've asked in as many days, Mikael, and the answer is still no. Don't you ever get tired of rejection?"

The man laughed. "One of these days, Carlotta Valentia. One of these days you're going to take me up on my offer, and it'll be the best thing you ever do."

She sighed. "I'm sure there are plenty of women at the tavern who would be more than happy to share a drink with you," she said wearily. "Now if you'll excuse me, it looks like there are actual customers in line."

The man made a half-turn and looked over his shoulder. Upon seeing the Khajiit standing behind him, he raised an eyebrow; Kharza decided he did not like this Mikael.

"Very well, then. I'll see you later, Carlotta."

"I'd rather you didn't," Kharza heard the woman mutter under her breath as the man walked away.

She was pretty, to be sure, but she looked like she hadn't had a good night's sleep in a long while. She couldn't have been older than thirty, but the tired circles under her eyes made her look like she was.

"Hi, Miss Carlotta!" Lilla chirped with an excited wave.

"Hello there, Lilla," the woman replied with a grin. "Who's your friend?"

"Oh, this is Kharza. He fought a dragon, you know. "

The woman's eyes darted to his; he gave a gentle smile, trying to mask his nerves.

"Where's Mila?" Lilla asked.

Carlotta continued to look at Kharza for a moment before she turned her attention back to the girl. "Hmm? Oh, she's staying the night at Braith's house. Now, what can I get for you?"

Lilla looked up at Kharza and squeezed his hand eagerly. He gave her wink.

"We will have two of your finest sweetrolls, please," he said.

The woman's grin broadened. "Only the finest are to be found here, good sir."

She reached down and lifted a cloth-covered basket onto the counter. Kharza could feel the girl at his side bouncing on her toes enthusiastically as Carlotta pulled back the cloth and gestured with her hand at its contents.

"Brought in not ten minutes ago. Take your pick."

He adopted a pensive expression as he peered into the basket, humming as he looked over the treats inside.

"Hmmm… I do not know," he said, shaking his head as he looked to Lilla. "I think I need an expert opinion."

He stooped and wrapped his arms around the girl's waist; she giggled as he hoisted her into the air and brought her in close. Almost instantly, she pointed to the two largest sweetrolls.

"That one and that one," she tweeted.

Kharza nodded. "The lady has spoken. We shall have that one and that one, please."

Carlotta laughed. "All right, then," she said. She looked to Lilla and narrowed her eyes, wagging a finger in mock scolding. "Now don't you go spoiling your appetite, young lady."

"I won't, I promise," the girl replied.

Lilla attacked her sweetroll before Kharza's coin had even met the Imperial woman's palm. She was already a third of the way through when he lowered her down to the street. He simply stood there, happy to watch the girl work her way through her treat.

"You'd best get back to your mama now, Lilla," Carlotta said. "It's getting late, and you don't want her worrying."

The girl had barely crammed the last of her sweetroll into her mouth before she threw her arms around Kharza's waist and hugged him tightly. It took him completely by surprise; it made him think of the way his son used to do the same thing when he was that small. It filled him with longing, but it brought joy to his heart to know he'd made the girl so happy.

"Thank you, Kharza!" she beamed as she pulled away. "Come see me again soon, 'kay?"

With that, she skipped off into the market. He stood bewildered for a moment as he watched her disappear into the dwindling crowd before the sound of Carlotta's voice made his ears twitch.

"Aren't you going to try your sweetroll?"

He had almost completely forgotten he was holding it. He took his first bite, and his eyes rolled back. Everything about it was spectacular; it had been far too long since he had a cake so dense and sweet. He chewed slowly, savoring every morsel on his tongue.

"It's good, isn't it?" Carlotta smiled. "Didrik does a good job."

The Khajiit hummed contentedly. "He certainly does," he replied before unceremoniously shoving the rest into his mouth and sucking the remaining crumbs off his fingertips with glee. Carlotta giggled again; he couldn't stop himself from joining in.

"You're the one the guards have been talking about, aren't you?" she asked.

He nodded in response. He wondered how many times he'd hear the same question during his stay in the city.

"They say you killed it with a dagger."

"I did."

"They also say you consumed its soul. People all over town are calling you 'Dragonborn.'"

"Ah," he said, lowering his gaze, "so they are. I must say I am not entirely comfortable with it."

"So I'll just call you… Kharza, right?"

"Kharza," he smiled. "even so. And you are Miss Carlotta, according to our mutual friend and sweetroll connoisseur?"

She grinned. "Even so," she winked. "Carlotta Valentia."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Carlotta Valentia," he said, extending his hand.

She took his fingers in hers and gave them a gentle squeeze. The look in her eyes made him thankful for the fur on his cheeks, for he was sure that he was blushing underneath.

"Thank you, Kharza," she said softly, letting her fingers trail away. "For everything. You saved our homes, our lives… _my _life… my daughter's life…"

"Mila?" he asked.

"Yes," she smiled, "my Mila. I don't even want to think about what losing her would do to me."

"I understand. I have a son I have not seen in quite some time. I came to Skyrim to find him; now it seems I have more cause than ever to worry."

"Do you know where he is?"

He shook his head. "I know he is with my cousins, traveling with one of my people's trade caravans. That is all I know. One is due to arrive tomorrow, if what I am told is correct."

"Actually," she said, "I heard from Didrik that they arrived a day early. I was planning on sending him tomorrow afternoon to purchase some things for me."

His ears perked up. "If they are here now… if you tell me what you need, I will bring it to you tomorrow."

She raised an eyebrow. "If you do," she smiled, "your next sweetroll is on me."

* * *

><p>The caravan certainly was a sight to behold. It was nothing short of a grand bazaar, albeit one comprised of tents. Merchants and traders called out to the Whiterun citizenry meandering through the pathways between yurts. Even in the dwindling sunlight, everywhere Kharza looked was thick with rich colors—exotic herbs and spices, fragrant fruits and nuts, assorted weaponry and a vast array of jewelry all threatened to overwhelm his senses. The breeze itself seemed to dance to the sounds of drums, lutes and flutes filling the air, and many among the crowd—Khajiit and smooth-skin alike—seemed to dance with it.<p>

To be surrounded by his people and immersed in a sea of Ta'agra gave Kharza a feeling of pride he hadn't experienced since leaving Elsweyr. Hearing his mother tongue made his heart smile; it amused him to no end to hear traders and guards cursing with affection as they spoke to one another. It was something few smooth-skins could understand.

"Kharza!"

His ears swiveled toward the source of the call. He knew the voice well. He turned around to see a Khajiit in steel armor approaching him with a smile on his face.

"Hey, Kharza-do! What's this I hear about you _eating _a dragon, eh?"

"J'Zatho, you wily bastard!" he laughed. "I have not seen you in years! What in Oblivion are youdoing all the way up here in Skyrim?"

The steel-clad warrior reached his arms out to the sides and clapped his hands to Kharza's back, embracing him warmly. "I could ask you the same thing! And it's almost S'Zatho, now."

"You're getting married? When did this happen? Last I saw you, you were up to your ears in Imperial—"

J'Zatho shot him a wary look. "Pipe down, you fool! My betrothed is around here somewhere and she'll have my balls if she hears talk of my smooth-skinned conquests."

Kharza nodded with a chuckle. "Fair enough, brother. My lips are sealed."

J'Zatho grinned. "It's good to see you, Kharza-do. Come—there are a few more of us here I'm sure you'll recognize. And for S'rendarr's sake, tell me about this damned dragon!"

Kharza told his friend of everything that had happened since he left Cheydinhal. J'Zatho's jaw almost dropped through the floor when Kharza told him of the Imperial ambush and the dragon attack in Helgen, but it was the story of Bleak Falls Barrow that really had the cat's tail twitching. He looked upon Kharza with awe as he was regaled with details of the battle with Mirmulnir and how Kharza had absorbed its soul. When he was told of the Shout, all he could do was shake his head.

There were indeed several familiar faces among the crowd, and each one greeted him with an excited smile and a kind word. These were Khajiit who in past lives had swept the streets of Cheydinhal and polished her wealthier citizens' shoes now wore robes trimmed with silver thread and fine shoes of their own. It made Kharza proud to see his people achieving such success so far away from their homeland.

It seemed everyone had heard the news regarding the dragon attack. While definitely impressed that it was Kharza himself who dispatched the beast, everyone was simply overjoyed that he'd made it out unscathed. People he'd never met before that day showered him with praise from all sides—not just the Khajiit, but their customers from the city, as well.

Several tents served as workshops for the caravan's "painters"—traditional artisans who applied their works to canvases of flesh. Kharza saw quite a few members of the town guard lying on their backs while the painters poked elaborate ink patterns into their skin with needles attached to reed rods. Many Khajiit wore such markings themselves on their palms and lips; braver individuals opted for patterns of scars etched into the flesh of their torsos. Kharza had long since desired to be scarred so, but never quite felt he had earned the right.

Inside one such tent was a woman Kharza had not seen for many, many years. His surprise made him give pause; he gazed intently at her wizened visage and the faded markings on weathered fingers holding a very familiar pipe. Memories of those fingers upon his fur set his spine to tingle.

J'Zatho touched a palm to Kharza's shoulder. "Are you feeling all right, brother? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

He shook his head, his eyes still transfixed on the old woman. "Not a ghost—a woman very dear to my heart."

"You know Dro'Tsalavi?"

The woman turned her head at the sound of her name in the middle of a draw on her pipe. Smoke drifted lazily from between her lips as her eyes fell upon the Khajiit she had not seen she had not seen since he was a boy.

Kharza stepped forward into the tent and lowered himself onto his knees before the woman. Her eyes brimmed with tears as a slow smile formed upon her quivering lips.

"Eyes the color of starlight," she murmured, setting her pipe on the ground. "I would know them anywhere."

She reached out to him and gathered him up in a hug. Her hand wandered to his cheek; he closed his eyes, leaning his face into her touch.

"How I have missed you, Ja'Khajiit."

He reveled in the warmth of her palm upon his cheek as he held her close. "And I, you, blessed mother."

J'Zatho spoke from the entrance. "Ah, I forget the hour. I fear I must take my leave."

Kharza looked over his shoulder. "I do not mean to send you away—"

J'Zatho smiled and waved his gauntleted hand. "Bah! Nonsense. I am expected back, anyway; my beloved will no doubt twist my ear for arriving late for supper."

Dro'Tsalavi released Kharza from her embrace and dabbed away her tears with her wrist, adopting a stern expression.

"Ahtah is a good woman, J'Zatho. She loves you a great deal, and you must cherish her company."

J'Zatho bowed his head. "But of course, Dro'Tsalavi. I bid you good evening."

He straightened his back and walked away. Kharza turned back to Dro'Tsalavi; her smile returned, and she fetched her pipe from the floor beside her. She drew from it slowly; the sweet smell of its contents filled the air as smoke poured from between her lips.

"There has been much talk of you among the Nords," she said through another quick puff of smoke. "All day they have spoken of a Khajiit traveler who escaped one dragon in a town called Helgen, only to climb atop another and drive it to the ground. They say you took its very soul."

He nodded. "I was unsure at first of what was happening. One moment I stood before the beast's body; the next moment, its flesh began to glow and my body took on a new energy the likes of which I have never felt. My eyes became clearer, and my heart –"

She rested her hand on his knee. "Your heart is strong, Kharza. Did I not always tell you when you were but a cub perched upon my knee that mighty Alkosh smiles upon you?"

Kharza hung his head with a sigh. "You did, blessed mother. Still, when I came to Skyrim I did not expect to be hurled into such chaos. To come face to face with a dragon, not once but twice? All those lives extinguished like candles in the wind, right before my eyes …"

The old woman's hand rose to his shoulder. "To die in such a manner is a terrible thing, but you mustn't allow yourself to succumb to sorrow for long. You must be _strong, _Ja'Khajiit. You are not just a warrior, you are a hero—not only among our people here, but among all who know of your deeds. Even more, you have always been a hero to your family; to your son."

His eyes flickered upward to hers. "You know of my son?"

She smiled. "Yes. He was introduced to me by your cousins when our paths crossed. He misses you terribly, and he loves you very much. He is a fine boy with a good head on his shoulders. I have no doubt your father smiles proudly upon you from the afterlife to know you raised such a Khajiit and named him in his honor."

Kharza closed his eyes, trying desperately to shut away the drops of anguish that threatened to reveal themselves. "No. Surely my father is ashamed of me. In the years you and I have been apart, I have done a great many terrible things."

Dro'Tsalavi raised her hand to Kharza's cheek once more. "You speak as if I do not already know of the events in Cheydinhal."

He opened his eyes; a single tear spilled down his face and over the old woman's fingers. She gently wiped at the corner of his eye with her thumb, still wearing a smile upon her saddened face.

"Your cousins have told me all about your life in Cyrodiil. They told me of their fears that there would not be enough to eat, that you would all be stolen in the night and sold into slavery, that your son would not survive childhood. They told me that you took it upon yourself to provide, that you put yourself in harm's way over and over again to ensure their well-being."

She lifted her pipe to her lips and took another draw, breathing smoke before she continued.

"Had you killed merely for the sake of having coin in your pocket, we would not be speaking as we are now. I would have beaten you until your eyes bled and cast you out. I would have prayed to our ancestors that they might punish you. Do you know why I do not?"

Kharza remained silent; he merely shook his head.

"What you did, you did for your family. Family is _everything_, Kharza. With the wolves at one's door, he has two choices: fight and live, or roll over and die. Your father told you that often—I heard him speak the words, myself."

Kharza sniffed; he wiped furiously at his eye with the back of his hand. Dro'Tsalavi reached for it and took it in her wrinkled fingers, lowering it to between their laps.

"You wear scars acquired in battle, and your heart wears scars acquired through turmoil."

She let his hand fall from her grasp and leaned off to the side, reaching toward a small wooden box on the floor that Kharza hadn't noticed before. She took another long draw of her pipe and opened the box, turning it toward him; inside were two small, curved blades. Kharza's could almost feel their keen edges as they glistened in the candlelight.

"I would have you wear another scar, Kharza—one of strength, of courage, and of passion. I would have you wear a scar granted by my own hand, that you might carry my love with you always."

It was all Kharza could do not to sob as he slowly lifted shaky hands to remove his gear.

Each slice was clean; the only pain came from the sting of the chilly evening air upon the open cuts, but he managed it easily. He looked with wonder as Dro'Tsalavi plucked tiny worms of furry flesh from his chest and dropped them into a small clay bowl by her knee. The woman was masterful; she hadn't even put away her pipe, and continued to puff away as she plied his flesh with her blades. The air was rife with the smell of sweet smoke, and it put Kharza's mind at ease.

The old woman took a moment to admire her work as she made the final incision. She set down her blade with a smile and reached off to the side again, this time retrieving a small mirror. She held it in front of Kharza's chest; his eyes went wide. He knew the pattern.

"The Mark of Alkosh, Dragon King of Cats," Dro'Tsalavi grinned. "Over your heart, just as your father wore his. Many Khajiit did not care for the old ways and prayers, but your father held them firmly in his heart and mind. He passed them onto you, as I passed them onto him. Wear the Mark with pride, for you truly are a son of the First Cat."

She held out her pipe. He leaned forward and put his lips to its end, closing his eyes as he drew deeply of its sweet smoke. The stinging in his chest subsided immediately; a floating feeling began to wash over him as he exhaled, building quickly until he felt as though he were sitting on a cloud.

He smiled. Tonight would be a good night.


	7. Bandits

_Short chapter this time, 'cause hey—why not?_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7: Bandits<strong>

The covered cart's large wooden wheels squeaked on their axles as the horses pulled it eastward into the soft breeze of the late afternoon. The first crickets were beginning to sing in the tall grass and thistle branches swaying lazily in the wind along the sides of the road.

Kharza had already spent days with the carriage, but the creaking wood and the feel of the bumps in the road still made him uneasy. After all, it hadn't been so long ago that he'd awoken to a blinding headache on a similar carriage with his hands bound, surrounded by soldiers in tattered blue cloth.

His mind's eye flashed back to the sight of the dragon landing on that little girl in Helgen. The image of her little body bursting under the beast's massive claw was even now all too vivid. The thought nearly turned his stomach; he shut his eyes, trying hard to banish such memories to the back of his mind. Both his hands tightened around the scabbard of the weapon he held before him as he fought to regain his place in the present.

The people around him now were not Stormcloaks, merely ordinary men and women, fellow travelers bound for the Rift. He was not headed toward a chopping block; he was bound for the city of Riften, or at least for the Khajiit who were said to have established a presence outside its walls. Unpleasant though his ride had been, the thought of being reunited with his family gave him strength.

Still, he wished he were in a position to sleep for more than an hour or two before the cramped quarters around his right flank caused pins and needles to shoot through his tail and force him awake. He kept it curled as tightly as he could against his right thigh; it annoyed him that the carriage wasn't designed with "lesser beasts" in mind.

_No more carriage rides, _he told himself for the fiftieth time that evening. At least the armor Eorlund had given him wasn't stiff and rigid like so many other sets he'd seen.

The sound of the driver's voice made his tired ears perk up.

"Won't be long now," the old man called over his shoulder. "Maybe another hour or two before we get to Handsvall Town. We'll stop there for the night."

Kharza sighed, touching his forehead wearily to his weapon. He said a silent prayer to Khenarthi, bidding her to help the time pass quickly as his arse was threatening to fall asleep again.

Years of training had made him quite perceptive of his surroundings. Even with his head down, he knew a number of the other travelers had their gazes fixed upon him. Nothing new, really—it had been this way since the beginning of the journey. He figured they'd have gotten bored by now, but apparently his figure was just as intriguing as ever.

His eyes flickered upward and caught the stare of the young Nord sitting across from him. The lad looked to be in his late teens; shaggy, brown hair lay matted over his brow, and a few patches of dark, days-old stubble marked his cheeks and chin. Even though Kharza had caught him staring, the Nord didn't avert his eyes. After a few moments, he spoke.

"Is it true what they say?" he asked. "Did you really take its soul?"

Kharza sighed again; it figured that the first one to talk to him on this trip would ask him such a thing. He'd grown tired of such questions days ago.

"If the words of the soldiers who were with me at the watchtower bear any truth, then yes," he replied.

The lad shifted forward in his seat.

"What… what was it like?"

The Khajiit pushed himself up and rolled his shoulders back. He slowly twisted his head to the side, releasing the tension within with a series of loud pops before repeating the motion on the other.

"Like that," he said, "only on a much greater scale."

The Nord's brow furrowed. "It must have been more than that."

Kharza raised an eyebrow. "I suppose when you feel it for yourself, you will have a better way to describe it."

The lad shrank back into his seat. "I was only asking," he muttered.

Another Nord, an older man with a bushy gray beard further up the bench, was the next to speak.

"D'you reckon there'll be more of them?"

He looked in the man's direction.

"The dragons, I mean?" the man continued.

"Undoubtedly," Kharza said.

"Gods help us," he heard a woman mutter under her breath.

_Gods help us, indeed, _he said to himself, closing his eyes once again and bringing his head back to rest against his sword. _Khenarthi, I implore thee—let fly these wheels and save me from any more inane questions._

He sat still in the relative silence, wriggling in his seat and flicking the tip of his tail to ward off the impending loss of sensation and the disagreeable, tingling heaviness that always followed. Several minutes passed before the lad spoke again.

"So… where are you headed?"

He looked up again. "I fail to see how that is any of your concern."

"There's no need to be rude about it," the old man chimed in. "The boy was merely taking an interest in—"

"Stop," Kharza said, letting go of his sword with one hand and holding it up for emphasis.

The man scoffed. "And now you're—"

"_Stop_," he said again. "Listen."

He heard voices up ahead on the road. The sound was faint at first; so faint that it was nearly buried beneath the chirping of the crickets. As the cart trundled forward, though, the voices became clearer.

His fingers tightened around his sword once again.

"What are you on about, cat?" the old man sneered. "I don't hear a damned—"

"Shut _up_," the Khajiit hissed.

The man fell quiet; the voices in the dark grew from murmurs into shouts and barks, accompanied first by the sound of blades being drawn and then the horses' frightened whinnying as the carriage came to a halt.

A man called out in a deep, gruff voice.

"Shut those horses up before I shut them up for good!"

Kharza heard the driver frantically trying to calm the creatures. His fellow travelers began to whisper and whimper amongst themselves, but he paid them no mind; he kept his eyes closed and his hearing fixed on the sounds outside.

The jeers from in front told him there were at least five of them; the footsteps in the dirt on his side made it at least six. He looked to the rear entrance of the carriage just as the footsteps stopped and a ragged-looking Redguard woman poked her greasy head inside.

"Well, well," she sneered, "look at what we have here. Everyone outside! Move your sorry arses!"

Everyone sat stone still. The woman bared her rotten teeth and lifted her hand; her fingers curled inward, and a ball of flame formed against her palm.

"Are you all deaf, you sad fucks?" she growled. "I said _move!_"

_At least one mage, _Kharza thought. _I must be wary of this one._

He was the last to exit the cart, keeping his sword clutched tightly in his left hand. He felt the mage woman's palm strike the back of his cuirass, causing him to stumble forward half a step.

"Get moving, flea-bait, before I rip your furry ears off."

His ears went halfway flat; he wanted to turn around and tear her face from her head right then and there, but he knew he had to get a look at the rest of her band before he could do anything.

He was angry.

There were indeed six of them—the Redguard mage; two scrawny Dunmer carrying rusty shortswords; a burly blonde Nord woman with a shiny steel axe in her left hand; a lanky Bosmer with a spear; and the big Orc pacing along the line of travelers from the far end, eyeing them with a wicked grin.

Only the Orc wore heavy armor—boots, greaves, gauntlets, breastplate and an open-faced helm, each piece the same shade of dull green as the others. The rest wore cracked leather.

Kharza heard the words of his father inside his head.

_Remember, little cub—a good warrior respects his equipment and keeps it in good condition._

They certainly looked like incompetent fighters, but they had the numerical advantage _and _a pyromancer. Kharza's grip tightened on his weapon as he sized up the bandits and worked to judge the distances between himself and each of them.

The big Orc stopped and spoke.

"Would you just _look _at this bunch?" he chuckled. He turned around to face his companions. "Bet they're carrying all _sorts _of lovely little trinkets…"

One of the Dunmer laughed. "Well, they did until we got here boss!"

His guffaw sounded like the braying of an ass. _Fitting_, Kharza thought.

"Did anyone tell you to speak, you little shit?" the Orc growled. "You and your halfwit brother go search the cart. Now."

The dark elves scurried off toward the carriage, nearly tripping over their own feet in their haste. The Orc turned back to the line and continued his inspection, taking slow, methodical steps toward Kharza's end.

He saw the Orc stop again, this time in front of the young lad. The sadistic smile stretched returned to his lips.

"My, my," he said. "You're a pretty one, aren't you?"

Kharza could almost hear the lad swallow in fear.

The Orc looked him over again. "You ever been fucked, boy?"

The Nord was trembling. He shook his head; the Orc's lips curled back into a grin.

"This day keeps getting better and better," he said, stepping closer to the lad. "Been _far _too long since I've had a cherry arse. Looks like I'll be your first, boy…"

Kharza was angry before; now he was enraged. He took a step forward, then another toward the Orc reaching around to the lad's backside.

"Enough," the Khajiit hissed.

The Orc froze. He slowly turned his head and sneered.

"Well, look at you," he snarled. "A hard-arse, are you?"

Kharza stood silent as the Orc approached.

_This one is tall, _he told himself_. Aim high._

"That's quite a big sword you're carrying there, Sir Hard-arse."

_Wait for it, Khajiit…_

"And you wear such shiny armor, too! All of it should fetch me a _bundle _when I take it off your—"

He swung the sheathed blade hard toward the Orc's helm; the resounding _crack _filled the air as the helm went tumbling into the dirt. He rushed forward, and in one fluid motion he wrapped his right arm around the bandit's head, aligned himself with his foe and twisted hard, throwing him over his hip into a clattering mess on the road. He chambered his leg high and brought his boot down on the bandit's throat in a crunch of bone and cartilage.

He gripped the hilt of his sword and threw the scabbard free, quickly turning to face the Nord woman charging him with her axe held high. He ducked and raised his blade, letting the woman cut through her own tendons as she swung. Her axe fell to the ground, and he came up behind her; her cry of pain lasted only as long as it took for him to cleave her skull in two.

The Bosmer's wild shouting gave him away before he even came into Kharza's line of sight. The Khajiit neatly sidestepped the elf's careless lunge, palmed the flat of his blade and hammered its pommel into the man's forehead. The elf went cross-eyed as blood began to ooze from the wound; a quick slice across the side of his neck sent him to his knees, more blood bubbling from his lips as he gurgled his last breath.

Something heavy caught Kharza in the middle of his chest, knocking him off his feet in a flash of blinding light and intense heat. The wind left his stomach in a sharp surge of pain; an intense burst of sharp tingles coursed through his spine as his back hit the dirt.

_Fucking mages_, he thought as he fought to regain his breath.

He heard more yelling. He sat up just in time to see the Redguard charging toward him with her hands at her chest, another ball of bright orange flame between her palms. His eyes went wide with worry; he flung himself into a roll, barely avoiding the blast but still feeling its heat as the patch of road beside him exploded and showered him with dirt.

His ears were ringing, but his eyes remained focused enough to see the woman drawing close. The air between her hands was once again starting to shimmer with heat. She was reckless, though; she came in too fast and too close. He saw his opportunity and seized it, grabbing a handful of dirt and flinging it in her direction.

A few bits of gravel caught her in the face; he saw the magic in her palms burst into nothingness when she raised her hands to her eyes, and he said a quick, silent prayer of thanks to Rajhin for his luck as he raised himself to his feet. He took a deep breath, forcing away the pain in his gut and back, and raised his sword high as he stumbled forward.

He slashed down at the back of her neck with a growl. His blade cut all the way through her neck and wrists; her head and hands hit the ground before the rest of her followed.

He stood looking at the Redguard's remains, panting through his nose. He turned his eyes upward; in his fury, he had completely forgotten about the Dunmer. By the looks of them, though, they weren't about to make a move toward him—they simply stood in place with mouths agape.

He bent down and gripped the woman's severed head by her greasy hair. Blood dripped from what remained of her neck as he shuffled his feet forward, snarling at the dumbfounded elves, dragging his sword behind him. He tossed the head toward them; it hit the dirt with a thud, bouncing once and rolling slightly to the side before coming to a stop.

"You can run," he growled, "or you can join your friends. The choice is yours; I suggest you make it quickly."

The elves turned toward each other in unison, then looked to Kharza, then back to each other once more before taking off across the road and into the grass. He watched them until their shrieks of terror faded away and their figures became specks in the distance.

He turned around slowly to face the group, still breathing heavily. Some still stood; others appeared to have fallen, cowering away from the sight before them. He saw the young lad drop to his hands and knees and start retching until the contents of his stomach spilled noisily onto the road.

There were footsteps behind him. He spun around, just about to raise his sword for another strike when he saw the old man holding his scabbard in outstretched hands. He let the tip of his blade fall to the ground again before reaching out and snatching up the sheath in his fingers.

"There's… smoke," the old man said in a shaky voice. "Coming from your armor."

He looked down; thin wisps of gray were rising from his shoulders, but he smelled no burning hair or flesh.

_Farengar, _he thought, _the Jarl ought to pay you more for your skills._

"I am all right, I think," he croaked. "Thank you for retrieving my scabbard."

The man nodded. "It's the least I could do. I'm sorry for earlier."

"As am I," Kharza sighed. "Are _you _all right?"

"_All _of us are all right, thanks to you."

The man reached behind his back and pulled out a handkerchief.

"For your blade."

Kharza lowered his scabbard and rested it against his thigh. He took the handkerchief with a nod of thanks, then lifted his steel across his body, wiping the blood away on each side before sheathing his weapon.

He turned his head toward the group and called to them over his shoulder.

"Gather up your belongings. Driver, attend the horses—there is still ground to cover."


End file.
